


Io e Armando

by FreyaLor



Category: History of France
Genre: 17th century French politics, Dom/sub, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Sickness, historical verse, no Dumas, quite a fair amount of heartbreak too, smut with INTENSE feeling, smut with feeling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 12:25:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15143063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: A chronicle of the years between the first meeting between Richelieu and young diplomat Mazarini and the fateful year 1642.A piece of historical fiction extrapolating the feelings shared between those two brilliant politicians uniting their skills in many ways to keep France safe at the turn of an era.Must be read in a more historical universe where Armand's heart and soul belong to the King of France only.Will be a side piece to a bigger, longer fic to come, eventually, this year.Thank you, Doctor, my consultant in Italian!





	1. 1630

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lustig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lustig/gifts).



 

__

 

_***_

 

 

 

 

 

_Oddio_ , how I love France.

 

I knew it the minute I crossed the Alps for the first time. I knew it as I saw the soft hills of Languedoc, the vibrant forests of Guyenne. I knew as I passed under the stern shadows of the once magnificent fortresses of the Catharses.

I knew, as I smelled the darkest wine Bordeaux could give, as I tasted the sweetest cake Gironde could bake.

 

The cathedrals of Rome, the marble of Florence, the southern shores, the northern mountains, nothing in Italy could compare to the pleasures of France.

 

I always knew my destiny had a French name.

But before I opened that door on a bright, cold day of January 1630, I didn’t know which one.

 

_Signore, the vision he was._

 

 

 

The portraits I had seen gave him no justice at all, because of course, they were all Italian-made. They had him look gaunt like a vulture, vicious like a wasp. They drew him small, they drew him old.

 

_Madonna_ , how far he was from any of this.

He beckoned me closer with the most graceful gesture I had ever seen, and for a moment I forgot all I meant to say. I could swear it was his wisdom that bound me to him for this very moment. I could swear it was the merciless wit in his speech. I could swear it was his skill, his reputation, his rank.

But _ametto_ , I would only be lying.

 

What gave my fate a name as I opened that door was, and will always be his eyes.

 

They weren’t dark as Italians' eyes can be. They weren’t olive black, wild, or violent.

There was a touch of honey in that darkness, a touch of fire too. It was a clear, changing hue, speaking in subtleties no man in the South could ever reach. Those eyes, they seemed to dig a hole in my mind, bring out my deepest secrets into the light, and laugh at my defeat.

Those eyes were the most dreadful weapon I ever faced.

 

 

He was superb, he was terrifying, and something inside me screamed I could never leave his side again.

 

 

So at first, I gathered my wits and started to speak, as I had done all my life, flattering  _ma non troppo_ , never letting praise drown the logic of my arguments. I started to list, expose, enumerate, my faith and will unshaken by his blank face. I started to talk, as good as God allowed me to.

 

But after ten minutes at most, I knew for sure it was all in vain.

 

This man was twenty years older than me, and those years he had spent wielding words and building schemes with genius I would never dream of. My moves, he had used them before. My tricks, he knew by heart already, and some of my ruses I think he might have invented himself.

 

I started talking, and soon enough I knew for sure I wouldn't change his mind.

But I kept on talking, because  _I realized changing his mind wasn't the point anymore._

 

From the moment I pushed this door open, and met those eyes of soft fire, my fate had a name, my future had a face. He was superb, he was terrifying, and something inside me screamed  _I could never leave his side again._

  
  


I didn't want to persuade him.

 

I wanted to  _please_ him.

 

 

The second it touched my mind, that truth ignited my spirits, exulting in my heart.

 

That was it, that was then. I had been waiting for that moment for years.

 

My day in History.

_My time to shine._

 

I kept on speaking, alight, aflame, dancing between blind hope and sharp focus. I was determined not to fail, but I trusted destiny with all my soul. I just had to look into those wide, vibrant eyes of his and pour my heart out into words. I felt no fear, no anguish, only a warm, fervent joy, moved by the certainty that God would deliver the future I felt was promised to me.

 

He feigned disdain at the beginning of course, looking through the window with a bored, haughty face, but he still didn’t make a move to stop me once, and that's all I needed.

 

After one hour, he ceased to look around to stare at me in raw curiosity,  frowning at my ecstatic, overjoyed words.

 

After two hours he started smiling from time to time, hiding his amusement behind a mask of politeness, and triumph bloomed into my chest.

 

After three hours his smiles were unguarded, his clever mind delighted by my efforts, and trumpets of fate sang loud and clear.

 

 

 

Sooner or later I fell silent, devouring the sight of his delicate grin, and the way it made his eyes look so much softer.

No, he was nothing like what Italians drew on those portraits.  He was noble, he was refined, almost saintly in his demeanor, and only a fool would be blind to the aura of a man who can forge all centuries to come.

 

I bowed, only slightly, as a signature to my speech, and dared a short smile of mine.

 

-“Have I managed to change Your Eminence’s mind?” I tried.

 

-“Not the slightest.” He laughed.

 

And though those were words of refusal, I swear they looked like a gift to me.

 

-“Then you must allow me to come back tomorrow and try again!” I pleaded, joining my hands on the Holy Cross hanging on my chest.

 

His eyes widened, and I felt myself being weighed like I would be on Judgement Day, my worth as a man, as a vicar, as a politician and a soldier rated and noted in the registers of his mind.

 

He vaguely swept a glance upon the documents on his desk, no doubt comparing the advantages of spending more time with me to the rest of his duties, and I awaited his verdict with a growing sense of urgency.

 

Eventually he looked back up, and that hint of a smile widened upon his thin mouth.

Sunlight and praise to my own eyes.

 

-“If you like.” He shrugged.

 

 

 

_Oddio_ , I almost sang.

 

 

***   

 

 

 

 

 

 

I came back the next morning, running to that same small study in the Castle of Pierre Encise. I hadn’t slept, I didn’t care. I had spent the whole night studying, preparing, rehearsing and praying. I was transported, resolved, frantic.

 

My moment in History.

My time to shine.

 

_The name of my own fate._

 

 

He let me in, and I immediately noticed half of the papers on his desk had been put away.

 

He didn’t even want to pretend to work anymore. He knew it never was the point.

We shared our first conniving look _. It felt like a nudge from God._

 

 

He welcomed me standing, a cheerful smirk already playing on his lips, and though a storm of war was raging beyond those thick ancient walls, he quietly sat in a wide armchair, joined his hands upon his mouth, and courteously nodded for me.

 

As his soldiers outside were cleaning their blades and loading their guns, he very gladly gave me the supreme luxury of his time.

And  _Dio_ , did I make it worth the wait.

 

I quoted the Greeks for him, the Romans, modern German and the Bible. I quoted his own writing, even the works he hadn’t published. I summoned words from Ambassadors and Cardinals, using them as bricks for my ramparts of reasoning. I wore myself out, I barely breathed.

At some point he had to offer me wine, because he thought I was going to faint, but  _a dir vero_ , I never felt so good.

 

I spoke for three more hours, chanting for peace, calling to wisdom, praising fate, praying God. My hands as I pleaded were flying in the air, and that made him laugh, because of course,  _Italians._

But I didn’t try to repress my gestures. His fond, genuine laughter was the highest of all rewards.

 

My speech rose to the ceiling, as high as ambition can be, and by the end of it he was pacing around in wonder, eyeing me from head to toe as he would an exotic beast.

 

The Red Man was impressed.  _This was the crowning glory of my life._

 

 

 

When all arguments came to an end the room fell silent, only disturbed by the sounds of my short breaths. I watched him walk slowly, his wide robes circling around my plain ones in a hissing waltz.

Then he stopped in front of me, and I bowed instinctively once more, signing my work, waiting for his judgement.

 

He didn’t speak at first. He looked like he was inspecting my face, and it lasted for a long time, but I didn’t mind at all. I stared back, taking in the lines of his hollow cheeks, troubled by how unnaturally soft his skin seemed to be.

 

Shaken by the need I felt to add touch to the list of senses this man was pleasing to.

 

I didn’t ask if my arguments had convinced him. They were never meant to.

He didn’t even mention them.  _We were far beyond that point._

 

-“I must inform you our troops will leave for Italy tomorrow at noon.” He just claimed, and because something in his voice wasn’t as steady as it once was, I let out without a second of doubt:

 

-“Then I will come back again tomorrow morning.”

 

He chuckled a little, rolling his eyes in a delicious gesture of helplessness.

 

-“Do you even have  _one_ reason left unspoken?” he sighed.

 

-“No.” I smiled. “But I assure you that won’t stop me.”

 

With that, I dared to take his hand, lift it to my lips and kiss it reverently.

Of course,  _of course_ , his skin was just as soft as it looked, and it took away what was left of my breath.

 

 

I remember I turned my heels and fled, more disturbed than I thought I would be, taking his stunned silence as permission to return. Around me as I ran out of the Castle, the twenty thousand men who had defeated La Rochelle were returning to war, and two hundred canons were being loaded into carts. Valteline had no chance,  _no chance at all_ .

 

My mission for the Pope had failed, there would be battlefields upon His Holiness' lands.

I had ruined my diplomatic reputation in Italy, and yet, how little did I care.

 

_How little did I care._

 

 

 

I went back to the humble inn in Lyon I had chosen for my purposes, locked myself into my small, squalid room, and crawled into bed to hold my Bible tight against my chest.

 

 

_E vero_ , I was delighted. I felt my heart beating the rhythm of future glories, chanting his name in blissful notes, but despite it all, there was still a deep, unknown worry in my mind.

 

Was I troubled by the fact that I had failed the Holy Church?   _Not the slightest._

I had, and I would succeed in other missions. The Valteline might be lost to Italy, my name tarnished among the Pope’s council, but to Hell with that.

 

There was something greater at stake there, something higher than the Vatican itself.

Something that would echo in the colors of France forevermore.

And dear God,  _how I loved France._

 

 

No, the reason why I didn’t sleep for one more night, staring into the dark skies above Lyon, hugging my bible against my heart, was fact that every time I closed my eyes, flashes of his soft white skin never failed to crush my breath.

 

Fate was calling, beckoning me into the shadows of the Red Man, and I wanted to be a part of that future.

 

_I would never leave his side again._

 

But I wondered exactly how far I wanted to crawl into those shadows of his, and the answer in my guts, already clear as day, terrified me to no end.

 

 

 

I came back the next morning. I knew as a distant fact that I was exhausted, but I ran all the same.

I wanted my chance at fate,  _I wanted my chance at France_ .

 

I thought I had built myself a brand new confidence overnight, yanking my thoughts away from his skin and towards my own ambition. It took time, but I was certain to be prepared, armed with a few quick, easy sentences already plotted upon the tip of my tongue.  
  
Unfortunately, the study was bright as I pushed the door for the third time, and instead of talking, I only gasped in awe at glorious rays of white light falling upon the carmine robes.

 

 

Fool that I was.  
  


 

Oblivious to my stare, he politely invited me in, finishing his signature on a letter.

I stepped in and closed the door behind me, but I couldn't speak. Not right away, not with that winter sun playing upon the skin of his neck, on the strands of his hair _, Madonna_ , that soft fire in his eyes. 

 

He glanced at me, questioning, and I gulped in anguish.

 

He was right after all, I had no more argument. No reason left unspoken.

Valteline was lost to the Pope, I had failed, and I was fine.

 

I hadn’t come back for Italy, I hadn’t even come back for peace.  
The true reason why I came back, the winter sun was yelling it right at my face.

It was the same reason  I had held my Bible tight all night long, but never once opened it.

 

For a dreadful second I felt guilty, inept,  _misplaced._

 

But he seemed so gentle, so eager to hear me, leaning against his desk, his hands fiddling with his quill, and how could I have cowered away from this quiet, subtle smile?

 

-“I am listening,  _Monsignore_ .” He encouraged me at some point.

 

 

So I inhaled, and God,  _I spoke._

 

I didn’t talk about peace. I didn’t quote any classics. I barely organized my words.

I just clenched my fists and rolled the dice. I trusted fate, I seized my chance.

 

I told him about my faith in God, in men, in Europe instead. I told him about my family, my gifts, my curses, and above all,  _I told him about France_ .

 

Oh, dear, magnificent France.

I praised the wisdom of her laws, the well-oiled mechanism of her State. I praised the bravery of her people, the discipline of her soldiers. I praised every city, every system, from justice to mail delivery, perfectly aware that though it was the Kingdom I named, it was only Richelieu’s own work I was glorifying.

 

I spoke of every village I crossed, every house I slept in, the people I met, the sceneries I watched. I spoke about the ocean, the roads, the churches, the food. The way French language curled and changed around every hill, every detour of a river.

 

 

And slowly, gradually, his eyes hooked into mine. His delicate hands dropped the quill, and joined upon his heart.

 

This wasn't diplomacy anymore. This hadn't even a hint of politics.

He knew. Of course he knew.

We couldn't even pretend to be working anymore.

 

And in the wetness around his eyes I could only see encouragement.

 

So I inhaled _, and God, I spoke._

 

I chanted my heart out about the wonders of his life’s work, I claimed my ardor for his vision of the future, and after a while, I started to speak his very name, the sound of it upon my tongue like the best delicacy of the French language.

 

What I had feared all night long was about to happen, unstoppable as fate often is.

 

As I acclaimed his intelligence, his subtlety, his insight, his skill, there was no diplomacy at all.

 

It was an act of devotion, nothing less.

 

And as I praised his handwriting, his reputation, his allure, or the harmony of his face, this was no politics at all.

 

 

It was a breathless  _serenade_ , nothing more.

 

 

 

It had happened, of course, how could it not. I had known from the moment I pushed this door open, three days before, and it had kept me awake ever since.

My destiny wore his face.

 

_His signature upon my heart._

 

 

I held my Bible tight for hours, but I never opened it.

Because I knew far too well what the Book had to say about those longings in my mind.

 

 

My heart draw to his eyes, my mind curling around his wrists, as inescapably as fate could act.  
I feared I wouldn't be just talking to him, but  _seducing_ him instead, fervently,  _feverishly._

 

It had happened. Of course.

  
_How could it not?_

 

 

 

With every sentence I dared, I watched his face carefully, searching for clues and directions in his dark, troubled stare. As I never found anything there to force restraint upon my passion, I ended up standing a few inches from him, whispering more than I spoke, witnessing his white cheeks reddening as a man freed from prison could smell spring for the first time.

 

 

 

As it all ended, since all things must end, silence stretched between us once more, and we realized we were both panting.

 

His fingers upon his heart were trembling. He knew. I felt he always would.

There would never be secrets between us, so had God decided.

 

 

\- “Is that all, Monsignore?” He breathed after a while, and I could barely nod.

 

I marveled at the delicacy of his voice, and the meaning he could give to the slightest tone of his speech. I watched in awe at the frail bones of his hands, frowning at traces of wounds and cuts on his fingers, what kind of heretic had dared to hurt him so?

Meanwhile I stepped closer still, and if he did recoil a little, he did not truly move away.

Fascinated, out of my mind, exhausted and frenzied, I didn't even question myself as I laid one of my hands upon his own, stopping the shaking with soft strokes of my thumb.

 

 

His breath shortened, starting to sound like panic, but he still made no gesture to push me away, staring in shock somewhere around the edge of my shoulder.

 

-”Then if you'll excuse me,” he rasped, “I have an army to set in motion.”

 

My dismissal was spoken clear, but his feet didn't even twitch.

 

He looked shaken, he looked frightened, he looked downright  _terrible_ , but he was charmed, I felt it.

He was nailed to the floor, absorbed, enthralled, and in the distant calculations of his eyes I guessed he was already making plans to use my  _skills_ for his purposes.

 

What plans were brewing in that brilliant mind of his, I could only guess, but none of them involved my dismissal, this I was quite certain of.

 

 

-”When will I see you again?” I quietly asked, still mesmerized by the softness of his skin, warming up under mine.

 

-”I'll be in Paris before spring.” He mused. “You will, no doubt, be charged by the Pope to deliver his outrage to me.”

 

-”I strongly intend to.” I murmured, gently lifting his hand to my lips again. “Even if eventually, my loyalty might find itself won by France, just as surely as her flag will float upon the strongholds of Valteline once more.”

 

With that, I kissed his abused palms twice, taking my time, making myself  _very clear_ .

He shivered, I knew he did, but he snapped his hands away and stepped back, amazingly dignified. He had a sharp nod towards the door, and this one wasn't keen on compromise.

 

I bowed, low and deep, and left stepping back, taking with me the hues of sunlight upon his cloak, because a few months were going to separate us, and I was already in pain for every second of them.

 

***  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I lean outside the window of my small carriage to gaze in wonder at the mighty silhouette of Fontainebleau, playing with a daydream of the ballets and receptions I'll be attending there one day.

_Madonna,_ the castle is sublime. This front alley, adorned by oaks and bushes, is longer than my hometown of Pescina. Those gardens, are they even real? It looks like mankind has enslaved nature itself.

 

And I heard Fontainebleau is nothing compared to the Louvre.

 

The Louvre.

_I'm going to the Louvre._

 

 

I let myself fall back on my swaying bench with a sigh of pure bliss, taking that short, elegant letter in my hand for the twentieth time today.

Richelieu has been right to the smallest word. The King and he have conquered Valteline and Savoy in ten days, and as the Pope learned about his absolute defeat,  _diavolo_ , he wasn't pleased. My utter failure had caused quite a commotion in the Vatican, and I think my position as ambassador has been reconsidered by the Holy Council for a while, but I was told my … - convenient affinities with France had earned me one more chance to prove myself.

 

Ha. Affinities.

_They have no idea._

 

 

I was charged with a heavy list of complaints from Rome to be transmitted to the King and Cardinal. As giving these barely veiled insults straight to Richelieu was the last thing I wanted, I first wrote him a very polite letter, asking him for an audience to discuss those  _worrisome diplomatic matters._

 

Not one unreasonable word could be found in my message, but I poured enough eagerness, enough warmth in it to remind Richelieu of my true aim, I am sure. The delicate, most welcoming answer I received while assigned in Avignon seems to tell me I succeeded.

 

_'Dear Monsignore,’_

 

His own handwriting.  
I know, because I've seen a few letters from him before, and I'd recognize those elegant, dramatic capitals anywhere.

 

_I am delighted to assume your duties towards the Vatican and France are unchanged. It would have pained us indeed to be forced to pursue negotiations with anyone else than you._

 

_By my hand, His Majesty Louis de France gladly accepts to receive you in his lodgings of the Louvre. I trust you will find your way to Paris within ten days. Be assured, until then, that His Majesty's regards for you remain just as heartfelt and considerate as mine._

 

_I wish you the safest of journeys._

 

_Armand Cardinal de Richelieu._

 

 

Heartfelt.  _Considerate._

I once more repress a cheerful smile, passing my fingers on his signature.  _Armando_ . The soldier. How fitting, isn't it? As if fate hadn’t been clear enough about the two of us.

 

The road is bumpy and my carriage is cheap. The whole vehicle is creaking and whining as it rolls upon the dust, but I barely feel it. I only remember his short breath, his red cheeks, and the trembling of his hands as I spoke my praise for him. I cherish this memory, like a framed painting above the hearth of my mind, building all my hopes upon that raw fascination I have seen in his eyes.

 

He is waiting for me I am sure, and in the shadows of his red robes, so is my destiny. He is waiting for me under the clears skies of Paris, and he has plans, he has use for me,  _I know_ .

 

All my work, the studies, the battlefields, the meetings.

My passion for words, my lust for France.

 

He noticed everything. I feel he always will.

There will never be secrets between us, so has God decided.

 

He’s waiting for me no doubt, and once I prove where my intentions truly lie, I‘ll be allowed to enter his service.

 

I'll work for him, carry his word, serve his purpose, and praise his name.

He’ll offer his patronage in exchange, and he'll teach me all his art.

 

_Armando_ . My guide, my mentor.

_Il mio padrone._

 

 

 

He’ll keep me by his side, he’ll tell me his secrets, e forse,  _forse_ , if I show myself worthy, if I please him just fine. If I push him the right way, If I push at the right time.

If I push a little more.

 

He'll let me touch his soft white skin again.

 

 

I bite my lips, and have a furtive glance for the worn-out Bible on my bench. I'm not afraid of sin, not at all; sin is just a shortcut to glory. I'm about to betray my country, my Pope, my duties as nonce, and it doesn't even twist my guts. I was born on the wrong side of the Alps, and I humbly intent to correct God's mistake, that's all.

 

I'm familiar with all kinds of sin  _e vero_ , but still, I'm terrified of _that one._

 

I know my need to devour  _everything_ that man has to give goes far beyond the limits of politics, and the thought is dreadful to me. I don't think I am one of  _those men_ . There are more than a few ladies in Rome who could plead for my case. But as soon as he's concerned, I don't know, I just feel moved by something higher than me.

 

Is it God's will, is it Satan's scheme, how could I know.

It brings me joy, it brings me bliss, that’s all I can say. It is the undying force that makes this carriage rush to Paris without a pause, without delay, and  _veramente_ , who am I to deny it?

 

I'll prove myself to him; I'll carry out his word.

We'll rule this paradise of radiant forests and high castles.

We'll rule the world,  _Io e Armando_ .

 

_Io e Armando._

 

 

 

 

 

**  
  
  
  


I feed on the sight of the palace just as much as I can before I set foot on the ground, because in front of Richelieu, I'll have to look at least  _composed_ . I still devour every glimpse of the magnificent flowerbeds, the solid sandstone, the delicate ornaments on the roofs, I'm in the Louvre,  _Oddio I'm in the Louvre._

 

Paris was already enough to make me lose my mind. Everywhere I looked, I saw wonders. The wide roads, the high Churches, all that space carefully ordered by disciplined minds. Nothing like the tight, busy mess Rome can be. I have loved everything, the smell of bread, the cobblestones, the crowded inns, the cheap Gazettes, and that delightful language I want to spend my life speaking.

As my carriage passed on the elegant arches of the Pont-Neuf, excited and focused I rehearsed a few practice sentences one last time; trying to tame my ungraceful Italian accent and have it smoothened by French notes.

 

Those R's, really, they can't be rolled anymore.

_Le ramier rieur roucoule au crépuscule._

 

_Diavolo !_ I’ll need time.

 

 

I don’t have it. The carriage stopped in the quiet courtyard, and the valet waiting for me has Richelieu’s crest upon his cloak. I grab my Bible, slide his letter into it, and open the door with a poised, clerical look, forcing my stare off the scenery.

The valet bows, asks me to follow him, “His Eminence is waiting for you” he says,  _oh I knew it, I’m in the Louvre, fate is calling._

 

 

I still caress the marble halls with stolen glances as I walk behind the footman, I can’t help it. Have I seen prettier silk in Rome, have I seen lovelier art in Turin, I don’t think so. Here under those stunning sculptures, I’m in the heart of France, and God, do I hear it beating.

But soon enough a door is opened for me, I see a glimpse of red in the study beyond, and all sound cease except the blood in my own veins.

 

 

-“Monsignore Giulio Mazarini, Nonce of His Holiness Urbain VIII.” The valet announces, and my name in a French voice once more rings like absolute truth to me.

 

I must be in the King’s Council room. The wide table, the chairs around, it all very much looks like a sober, more practical version of the one I saw in the Vatican. In a glorious afternoon light, Richelieu straightens up from the map he was unrolling and turns to me, an inviting smile on his face.

Behind him, sitting on a plain wooden stool that cannot belong to this room, a gruff, scrawny man in black monk robes only throws me a piercing stare before he goes back to the three books he seems to be reading at the same time.

_Madonna_ , this could be no one but Father Joseph, his master spy. I heard he’s a sorcerer at diplomatic schemes, and that Richelieu takes no important decision without him.

 

God, I’m being taken very seriously aren’t I?

 

I knew it,  _I knew it._

I’m in the Louvre,  _fate is calling._

 

Beaming joy, I march towards the Cardinal, ignoring his offered palm to take both his hands in mine and kiss them with every emotion I can express. Richelieu jumps in surprise, his lips parting a little.

 

-“For the honor Your Eminence is offering me,” I breathe against his skin, “I’ll be thankful forevermore.”

 

This earns me a sharp look from Joseph, and the black monk rolls his eyes at what he surely thinks to be another Italian overdoing the slightest thing. The Cardinal lets out a troubled, yet pleased chuckle, gently frees his hands from my grip, and gestures towards a seat.

 

-“Please sit down, Monsignore.” He tells me. “I am sure you have a lot to discuss. What does His Holiness have to say about France’s latest  _enterprise_ ? ”

 

Oh, quite a few things for sure, but I don’t unclench my jaw it right away, too busy watching his slender hands serve me wine and a tray of French biscuits. His gestures are soundless, efficient, and speak of such an ardent will to please that they wipe out my mind for as long as they last. I only jump out of my contemplation when he’s done, trying to dig up the speech I had prepared.

 

As I expected, the subject of the Pope’s anger is brushed away from their plates in a few minutes. They couldn’t care less. France has grown strong enough to stand the Vatican’s bile. Gently, smoothly, the conversation slips towards international politics instead, as well as diplomacy and trade.

I follow their lead, delighted to speak of my lifelong passion, but after one hour, I realize I’m not being entertained at all.

 

I am being  _gauged_ .

 

Barely disguised as innocent discussion about the situation in Europe, what they’re putting me through is nothing less than an examination, where Richelieu asks intricate questions, and Joseph judges my answers in silent, expressionless scorn.

 

 

Those plans the Red Man has for me,  _Oddio,_ they’re greater than I thought.

He doesn’t want me for minor tasks. 

 

He wants more, God, he wants much more.  
  


 

I’m in the Louvre, fate is calling.

I knew it, I always did.

 

_My destiny has always worn his name._

 

 

 

I cannot fail this test.  _I will not fail_ . My hands clenched around my glass of wine, I give it everything I can. I weigh every word, but look like I’m barely thinking. I inspect their faces closely, but seem to be weather-watching. I flatter, but I barely mention them, I claim my opinion, but I never speak for myself.

 

It’s dancing on eggshells, it walking on burning embers. It’s a trial, it’s an ordeal, but it’s another step on the ladder to paradise, and I am nothing but overjoyed.

 

Well, at least for the three first hours.

 

 

 

After that, though I sense Richelieu satisfied, his eyes shimmering, his stance almost proud, Joseph is still a barren wall. He hardly looks up from his books while I talk, and  _Dio_ , I think he yawned once or twice. This man has no care for politeness, and the only respect he has in this world is for that figure in red sliding around the table. 

 

If Joseph deems me unworthy, I’ll be destroyed without a twitch of remorse.

 

I feel sweat trickling down my spine. My knowledge, my arguments, my reasons, none of it seemed to hit a chord. Richelieu has stopped asking questions, and Joseph still won’t look at me.

 

I cannot fail this test.  _God, have I failed?_

 

I have a desperate look for the windows. Those gardens, those trees. The wide streets, the smell of bread.  _Miseria_ , how I love France.

I was born on the wrong side of those mountains, isn’t it obvious?

Look at me, old monk, don’t you see it?

 

Please, just see it.

 

-“Those biscuits” I mutter without a thought, pointing at the plate in front of me. “Those are Bouchons de Bordeaux, aren’t they?”

 

Joseph does look up, frowning. He shrugs, mumbling that he has no idea, and darts a glance at Richelieu who gently nods:

 

-“Indeed they are.” He says. “The King’s favorites. Are you familiar with them? ”

 

 

And with that, because what else is left to be said really, I start listing all the biscuits I tasted, the wine I drank, the bread I sliced. Hopeless, I only repeat for Joseph the song I sang for Richelieu before the war, paying a devoted tribute to the Garonne, the Seine, the Loire and the Saône.

I describe the Ocean coast, its mighty winds, the friendly villages of the South, the brave soldiers of the North. I embrace France again, her soil, her skies, her past and her future, feeling her warming up in my own heart as I speak it out in reverence.

 

At some point, though the song is meant for the monk above all, I’m only watching my dear  _Armando_ , because that smile on his face is the brightest I’ve ever seen, and I sense that my words could be exactly his own, his passion and mine matched once more in harmony under God’s knowing eye.

 

How perfect, how beautiful it feels.

 

Look at us, old monk, don’t you see it?

 

_Please, just see it._

 

 

When I finally gaze down to the Capuchin, my fists unclench.

He  _is_ looking at us. 

 

 

 

 

He’s looking at us and he smirks, no doubt because he heard those words many times already, only not by my mouth.

A peaceful moment of stillness spreads itself on the Council table, and at the end of it, Joseph nods.

Just once. He nods.

 

_Madonna,_ I didn’t fail.

 

 

 

The Red Man immediately claps his hands in relief, strides closer to give my arm a quick, yet ardent squeeze, and officially invites me to dinner with the King. I let out a shaking breath, lifting my stare at the heavens.

_Lo sapevo._

My moment in History, my time to shine.

 

Forevermore,  _fate is calling._

 

 

***  

 

 

 

 

Richelieu made it quite clear I wouldn't be the highlight of the evening. He told me the King always has to be approached humbly to earn his favor. More than anything, Louis despises racket and arrogance. The Cardinal has placed me at the end of the table, among other foreign delegates, and I am to wait there until I'm called forward.

 

-”I trust you not to mistake this discretion with lack of interest.” He whispered to me as we walked to the dining room, leaning slightly in my direction. “On the contrary I have the strongest intention to make sure the King very soon considers your presence as a familiar sight.”

 

He had such a seducing lopsided smile then, that his next advice was almost lost to me. Speak plain, I think he said, like a soldier, not a diplomat. Don't flatter, just state facts, look at him in the eyes, and don't smile too much.

 

_Va bene._

It is all somehow against my nature, but if I wasn’t flexible , I wouldn't survive one day of diplomacy, would I?

 

 

As we reach the main hall, I gasp at the compact, chattering crowd of French courtiers and soldiers gathered there, all placed in distinct groups for the incoming passage of the King. They form some sort of guard of honor, leaving a clear path in the middle of the magnificent hall from the Palace gates to the main stairs.

It looks like a well-oiled ritual, everyone knowing where to stand or what to do, but as Richelieu enters the hall by a side door, the groups scatter in front of him, conversations turn to heavy silence, and all stares drop on the floor.

His face remains blank as he cuts through the crowd like Moses opened the wild sea, marching straight to the first steps of the stairs, five feet above the rest. I've traveled, I think, through all the Courts of Europe, and yet, I have never seen such a thing. No one talks anymore. No looks at him.

_No one moves at all_ .

 

I don't think this pressured silence is made of affection, really, but it is forged in respect for sure, and quite a lot of fear. They might not all like the fact, but Richelieu is the ruler of that place, unparalleled, unchallenged.

 

Absolute.

 

His wide red robes hiss upon the marble steps as he elegantly turns towards the gates, gesturing for me to stand next to him, one step below, no less. I obey, mesmerized by the sheer authority in his tall figure, and the way control fell upon his face like a curtain of secrecy.

 

Apparently unfazed by the stillness crushing the main hall, he pulls a few notes out of his robes and starts fumbling through them with a focused frown.

He's working.

 

_Madonna_ , this terrifying spectacle of obedience is nothing more than another Sunday evening to him.

 

Richelieu.

 

The French monster, the Red Demon as the Pope often calls him.

_Well, every rumor has a hint of truth within, it seems._

 

I take a moment to gaze at this hall of bent necks, standing right next to the Master of Puppets, and for a breathtaking second, it's there, it's truly there.

My vision, my fate.

The dream I built my whole life upon.

 

It's there, I feel it, I was right to follow that man. He'll lead me straight to my rightful place, in the shadows of his red robes, and yes, I see myself quite clearly in years to come.

 

I'm in the Louvre, I'm in France.

I'm at his side, discrete, efficient, unstoppable.

His whispers in my ears, his hand around my waist.

 

The Red Demon and me, ruling over paradise.

Unparalleled, unchallenged.

 

_Absolute._

 

 

I'm pulled out of my reverie by Richelieu's voice, low enough to be heard by me alone :

 

-”If this evening unfolds in a satisfactory fashion,” he says, “you might be invited to a more private discussion with the King. After that, if His Majesty finds you to his liking, I will be requiring from you a few … - services concerning Italy and Spain in the near future.”

 

With that, he throws me a softer glance above the rim of the notes he's reading, adding with gentle tease :

 

-”Would you be comfortable with that perspective?”

 

 

My vision, my dream.  
I’ll prove myself worthy, I’ll work for him.  
Carry his word, serve his purpose, and praise his name.

  
  
He’ll offer his patronage, he'll teach me  _everything._

 

 

-”Nothing could please me more, Your Eminence.” I blurt out.

And I clench my jaw on the fact that I just felt like whispering that to the crook of his neck.

 

 

He doesn't reply, because the gates just banged open, four valets in hunting outfits loudly announcing the King.

 

Two hundred courtiers take a step back as one, pulling out their hats and bowing down low.

Richelieu straightens up, hides his notes in his sleeve and gently pulls at my cloak to have me retreat further behind him.

 

-”Don't speak.” His voice snaps. “Just be seen.”

 

I nod, instinctively joining my hands and lowering my gaze.

 

Louis de France enters the Hall, surrounded by six Officers, shrugging off a thick brocade cloak that looks heavy with mud and rainwater. Two valets rush to take it from his hands, and he strides towards the stairs, sparing no word, no glance for anyone. His boots are covered in dirt, his leather doublet in blood and grime. He seems to be finishing a conversation about gunpowder with the Officer next to him, heedless to the unspeaking crowd.

 

He's taller than he's told to be in Italy, and much broader indeed. He's definitely more handsome than I thought, but then again, venetian painters really don't like the French. He has thick, healthy long hair, and a well-refined nose.

There's something amazing in the way he walks.  Some natural strength, an impressive ease with power. There is no vanity, no haughtiness in him. There is simply a light of truth that strips everyone around naked, and I have never seen anything like this in a King.

 

Louis the Thirteenth walks fast, undisturbed, ignoring every hopeful face turned towards him, but as he jumps up the fifth step of the stairs he stops dead, acknowledging only one presence in the room.

 

Richelieu's.

 

The King's eyes, now that I finally see them, are something to be witnessed. They're very quiet, very calm, but behind a thin layer of poise, there is a deep, mighty emotion there, something I cannot name, but rather looks like pure rage.

If I hadn't taken one step backwards already, I swear I would right now.

 

But though Louis de France is standing three feet away from me, it's not him I feel forced to watch.

It's the Red Man.

 

Because from the Master of Puppets to what he looks like right now, the change has been drastic.

His whole figure has gone suppler, his stance a lot more pliant. His hands have joined each other on his chest in a very delicate gesture, and he bows with soothing, appeasing moves. The authority he radiated as he came into the hall hasn't disappeared, but it truly has turned inside out, changing into offering, like a mighty ruler would willingly hand out his weapons to a higher one.

 

-”Your Majesty.” Richelieu's voice gently utters, and I didn't think the French monster could even  _speak_ like that.

 

-”Cardinal.” Louis simply greets.

 

Something softens into the King's violent eyes. He turns to me, eyes me for a while, and I forget to breathe. His gaze goes back to Richelieu who just smiles. Louis nods, then, and resumes his walk, a bit calmer maybe, beckoning for the Red Man to follow.

They start to talk, their voices hushed and their gestures familiar, and I feel a growing sense of unease in my guts. There's something there I'm afraid to understand.

 

 

As the dinner stretches on, the feeling keeps growing.

 

Richelieu naturally sits at the King's right, upon the seat usually reserved to the Queen Mother. I heard, like everyone, the tale of the Day of the Dupes, where the Cardinal's place upon France's political chessboard has been declared unquestionable one final time. They keep talking, The Red Man softly sliding remarks under the King's plate, making him smile, making him growl. All kinds of emotions pass on Louis' face, not all of them amiable, but for bickering or a small laugh, the King's whole attention goes only for only one voice, and it's plain enough to see.

 

There is an unbearable truth in the way they fit, like the sun and the moon, right next to each other, barely touching, hugely different, and yet -

And yet.

 

I'm afraid to understand.

I watch them from where I sit, chewing distractedly upon the best roasted deer I've ever tasted, unable to swallow without a gulp, strangled by the inescapable death of my secret hopes.

 

_I don't want to understand._

But it's there, it's right there, and I wonder why it doesn't seem obvious to anyone.

 

Well, it may be because I am the only one to look at Richelieu _that_ way. It's because I crave for them that I notice those small flexions of his neck, it's because I hunger for him that I notice the way he lowers his eyelids. To the rest of the room, to the rest of the world, it may look like obsequiousness, lies or deceit, but to the growing pain in my heart, it feels exactly like what it is. 

 

The man I thought to be the true ruler of France screams submissiveness with every inch of his soft white skin, and the King welcomes his offering with quiet, natural ease.

There is no doubt, no question possible about who my dear  _Armando_ 's heart and soul belong to forevermore, and  _Oddio_ , how it hurts.

 

I can't help but understand.

 

 

As dinner ends, and aerial music is played in the wide room, I see Richelieu standing up and nod in my direction. I inhale, anxious. Here we go.

 

I get up and walk to the King's table. When I'm a few yards away the Cardinal smiles proudly at me, takes me by the wrist and pulls me towards Louis.

 

-”As I told you earlier, Your Majesty” he explains, “allow me to introduce the Nonce of His Holiness Urbain, Monsignore Giulio Mazarini, as living proof that the glories and prestige of France can conquer hearts and minds even beyond our southern frontiers.”

 

_Eh_ . Have I ever heard treachery more elegantly phrased?

 

I bow, low and humble, meeting the dark angry eyes with the courage I thought meant for battlefields, not dinner rooms.

 

-”One can hardly choose, Your Majesty, his place of birth or father's name.” I propose, and Richelieu's faint grin tells me I've been good enough.

 

But The King isn't listening to me. He's watching my hand, the one Richelieu is holding. I look down, and notice with horror that I have closed my fingers around his soft pale thumb, holding it in a tight, nervous grip. I pull away as if our skins were on fire, but I'm afraid it's far too late.

 

Louis de France's deep, wild stare crawls back up to my face, and I read my own death in his dark chestnut orbs,  _santa Maria_ , I feel like Icarus, too close to the sun, my wings already melting.

But the moon still has a voice, and knows how to use it.

 

-”I think Monsignore Mazarini's special set of skills could be particularly useful in our future endeavors concerning Spain” He claims, firm but docile.

 

Louis' merciless eyes leave mine to grab Richelieu's. I don't know what they're saying to each other, but they can speak without a word, those two, I feel it in my bones. I sense them arguing over my very life for a while, and as trying not to break into tears takes almost all my strength, the Red Man decides to make a move. He slides close, leans over the King and breathes something into his ear.

I have no idea what it is, but I am certain of one thing.

 

Louis stare  _blurred_ for a second.

 

The pain in my guts turns to raw, burning lead. How could I not understand?  
  
The King sighs, then, snapping his fingers for a refill of wine, and speaking without a look in my direction.

 

-”As far as I'm concerned,” he spits, “I think Italians have spent too much time doing my Kingdom no good whatsoever. They have nothing left to offer me except a few spices and conquered land.”

 

I see Richelieu biting his lips and clenching his fists in impatience, hissing a low, pleading sound.

Louis flinches it away, but still adds in a quieter voice :

-”And yet,  _my Minister_ here seems very eager to prove your worth to me. You seem to have earned his trust, so I will listen to you.”

 

The possessive couldn't be ignored. The message is clear. I bow, again, terrified, and a bit broken.

 

-”Meet me tomorrow at nine in my study.” The King adds, sipping his wine with his eyes lost in the distance.

 

And suddenly he stands up, taking his glass with him. As he passes me by his furious eyes pierce holes in my own, and he growls between his teeth straight to my face :

-”And remember, as you prepare your words, that much harsher measures have been taken for more precious souls than yours.”

 

With that, he brushes past my shoulder and joins a group of soldiers near the fireplace.

Richelieu has for me a few reassuring words, but I can't shrug away the fact that I might have angered a man that once murdered an  _Italian first Minister_ , and just exiled his own  _Italian mother._

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

He offered me a smaller room in the Palais Cardinal, one flight of stairs below his own. The bed was comfy, and the patterns of the wallpapers or the paintings were so irrevocably French I should have slept like an angel.

 

But I didn't sleep at all.

 

I was in the Louvre, finally, at last, and my sheets just as soft as my dreams, but though I should have glowed at the sight of fate coming true, in fact I was only mourning.

 

I was mourning my perfect vision, my hidden desire.

I was mourning the reasons why I hugged my Bible so tight at night.

 

I was mourning the picture of his hand around my waist, his lips against my ear.

  
  
  


That spot in the sun I longed for, between the folds of his red robes, cradled by the flexions of his voice, was already taken. The Hunter, long before me, had conquered everything, his flag throwing its shade upon the pale hollow cheeks. This broad man with angry eyes had taken the sweetest half of my wishes with nonchalant, natural ease, and I was left to lie in a bed of bitterness.

 

I would work for  _Armando_ alright.

I would carry his word and praise his name.

 

He would teach me,  _e vero_ , he would teach me, but not  _everything._

  
  
  


Louis de France had conquered more, much more than Valteline, and instead of singing my thankfulness to the stars above Paris, I spent my first night there night crying over memories of soft white skin.

  
  
  
  
  


In the early morning, numb and bloodless I still ran to his study, half an hour before our meeting with the King like he had asked. As I pushed the door open and walked to him, I didn't try to fool myself into believing I could master my feelings anymore. After all, the sun was high, his robes almost glowed, and he had the face of all my future days.

 

I once more bowed low and kissed both his hands with all the devotion in the world, because if I couldn't give him my time, my mind, my heart, well, I'd rather have jumped into that cheap carriage of mine straight back to Italy, curl around my Bible and let myself die there.

 

He welcomed my emotion with a gentle smile, asking me if I had slept alright, and I wondered if I could survive on this.

 

 

 

Leading me to the main table for fresh milk and bread, he passes a weightless hand on my back, and I know for sure I'll bloody try.

 

 

 

I share his breakfast, hoping for more advice concerning the King, terrified as I am to meet the Hunter again, but he only repeats what he told me yesterday : speak plain, don't flatter.

 

-”Won't I be expected at least to entertain him with my wits?” I ask, my mobile hands making him grin once more.

 

-”His majesty won't be judging you upon your wits.” He quietly answers, dipping a thin slice of bread in what seemed to be herbal tea.

 

-”Upon what, then?”

 

He sighs, searching for words, and the sheer devotion I read in his eyes as he evokes the Hunter makes my throat clench.

 

-”I know how often Italian writers describe the King of France as dull or thick-minded.” He eventually says. “They're deeply mistaken. He has, in fact, the only intelligence that matters in politics.”

 

-”What is it?”

 

-”He  _feels_ truth in everything.”

 

I fear I'm just gaping by now, and he eases my worries with a swift, elegant shrug.

  
  


-”Be sincere,” he advises, “and you'll have nothing to fear.”

  
  


I throw him a doubtful look, but apart from a suave smile and another glass of milk, I won't get anything more from him.

  
  
  


***

  
  


 

 

 

I realize I am not being led to the Council room as I expected, but to what seems to be the King's own bedroom instead, and my worry only doubles.

 

I can’t say I’m delighted to find myself locked in a tight space with the Hunter. Even with the protective shadow in red floating at my side, even if I'll only be a conversational dessert after their daily State Business meeting, it feels too much like I’ll be a fox caught in a wolf trap, and my ankles almost hurt at the thought.

 

Confident, Richelieu still pushes me past the high white gates, and I bite my lips upon the magnificence of the room. Everything is blue and gold, fleur-de-lis patterns dancing in between  _putti_ and delicate flowers. The furniture, though, is more functional than ornate, and everything I can lay my eyes upon is strictly useful or strangely sober.

 

Next to the four-poster bed, a huge table has been wiped clean, and upon it rules a black, dirty mess of steel and powder. It looks like a gunsmith has been invited here, at nine in the morning in a King’s bedroom, to demonstrate his art and sell his handiwork, as he would on market day.

 

And by the joy I witness in Louis de France’s eyes, it’s exactly what it is.

 

Two strong, sturdy men in worker clothes are presenting all kinds of pistol parts to him, and the King is handling them with ease, his white silk sleeves rolled up, his hands stained in black. As he weights and compares two freshly-forged barrels, there is a light of raw fervor on his face, a genuine admiration for the skills of France's craftsmen.

 

Indeed, the man I see there is of simple tastes, down to Earth, eager to work with his hands just as much as with his mind.

 

The Hunter.

The Soldier King.

 

Richelieu waits unnoticed until the barrels are returned to the gunsmiths, and gently clears his throat.

 

Louis looks up at us. He seems to figure out the documents in the Cardinal’s hands first, and flinches in irritation. He knows his leisure time is over.

 

But as he inspects the Red Man’s face, his eyes soften once more, a peaceful glow easing his bitter rage for a while.

 

-“Cardinal.” He greets, barely sparing a nod for me.

 

The Red Man bows, authority clicking back into obedience, and I know I only see those signs because I’m actively looking for them but  _Madonna_ , how come no one else notices?

 

My aching heart most surely does.

 

I know I shouldn’t look, I know I shouldn’t spy, I’m only hurting myself after all and there is work to be done, but this morbid fascination I don’t think I can refrain.

 

Louis dismisses the workers with stern gratitude and snaps for a valet to bring him a basin. Washing gunpowder off his hands he inquires about Richelieu’s documents first, and the Cardinal lays them down before him one by one, careful in his words, docile in his voice.

 

The King wipes his hands on his own doublet and picks up a quill, nodding to most of Richelieu’s sentences, hissing to a few of them. Every time Louis hisses, in refusal or in anger, my dear Armando shivers, bites the inside of his cheeks and insists, speaking other words, using other tones.

 

Louis ends up signing all documents without further arguing.

 

All,  _except one._

  
  
  
  


For this one he growls in fury, throwing it back at the Cardinal with foul comments and violent threats. Unfazed, Richelieu gently picks it up, and starts listing his arguments all over again, humbly appealing to the highest of the King's duties, one by one with resolute logic.

 

As the Red Man's stubborn persistence quickly gets on Louis' nerves, his fist bangs on the table in pure rage and I fear, for a second, that he might grab Richelieu's throat.

 

Whatever the odds are for Louis to hurt him, Armando doesn't seem to fear them the slightest. The King's anger visibly pains him, but he gladly endures every shred of it, and in reaction he simply adjusts the tone of his whispers.

 

 

Indeed, I realize with surprise that his words barely hold any argument anymore, as if logic didn't truly matter. The Red Man moves more than he talks by now, displaying a whole new set of wordless endearments like furtive tilts of his head, lower tones in his voice or subtle drops of his shoulders, all of them so flawlessly performed I almost step back in awe.

 

 

It's a game they have played for years I'm sure.

it's a dance they have followed for decades.

 

The lion roars, raising his claws, but the snake just slides around him, hissing from another angle.

 

At some point, Louis just yells at him to be quiet, and looks away with clenched jaws. At first I think what I'm witnessing is Richelieu's defeat, but soon enough I understand it's the exact contrary.

 

Armando obeys, but his pale, delicate hand quickly brushes the King's sleeve just once, and the Hunter's angry eyes immediately falter. They lose themselves in the distance, close, open again, and come back to stare at some detail of Richelieu's silver hair.

 

-”I beg your Majesty to understand I wouldn't stand to displease him if it wasn't absolutely necessary.” The Red Man breathes, and the desperate, ardent  _love_ in his voice makes me want to throw up.

 

Louis grunts, tired, rubs his nose and rumbles, but eventually he picks up his quill in exasperation and signs the last document.

 

_Madonna, io capisco._

 

Richelieu was right.

  
  


 

 

Louis has changed his mind long before he accepted it, somewhere in the middle of Armando's argument maybe, because he  _sensed_ where truth lied. He didn't even need to hear every detail of his Minister's intricate reasoning, he just  _felt_ what was right. 

 

What was left to be tamed, then, was the Hunter's furious temper, and this raging pride that seems to ignite every inch of his body. Louis was wrong to refuse that paper in the first place. He knew it almost immediately, but he fought like a beast to admit it, forcing Richelieu to stop negotiating and start  _soothing._

 

 

What the Red Man used then is something that cannot be conveyed by words. It's that forceful bond of loyalty and trust between them, it's warmth, it's feeling, it's written on their skins, it's carved in their souls.

 

_It is love, and nothing else._

 

  
  


This is exactly how France is ruled.

Just like that, upon the subtle, violent  _staccato_ of a dance of the Sun and the Moon.

  
  
  
  


  
  


I only realize how blessed I have been to be ignored all along when the King's eyes turn to me.

 

_ Oddio , he's in a foul mood. _

 

 

 

Armando, who no doubt followed my train of thought, swiftly walks closer to me, offering wine and chairs to both of us, speaking in a meek, but cheerful voice as I sit down,  _aghast._

 

-”Monsignore Mazarini has spent ten years in intense practice of war and trade diplomacy, and I am sure Your majesty can understand how, despite his young age, his abilities could not be left unnoticed.”

 

_Diavolo_ , it's true. I'm half a year younger than Louis.

 

The Hunter lets himself fall upon a seat, gulping down the wine Richelieu has poured him, his dark defiant stare fixed upon my throat.

 

-”And how on Earth could another diplomat be of any use to me?” He grunts, and the sight of Armando freezing right next to me is like the Earth shattering under my feet.

 

No.  _I cannot fail_ . Not so close to paradise, not under dear Paris' skies.

I persuaded the Red Man. I persuaded Joseph. I've come this far, I cannot fail.

 

My time to shine.

My moment in History.

 

Visibly bored already, Louis has a pointed glance for Richelieu, and already moves to get up.

I feel more than I see The Red Man's hand clenching around the backrest of my chair, and to the stars of my fate, I swear this is now or never.

 

-”The Duke of Savoy.” I state.

 

The King of France stops dead, an intrigued frown turning back to me.

 

-”What, the Duke of Savoy?” He spits.

 

-”I know him.” I go on, rolling the dice, seizing my chance. “I know everything about him. I've been sitting with him at negotiation tables more than seven times. I know how he thinks, I know how he works. I could be France's ambassador and settle once and for all the matters of Valteline and Mantoue in a solid, long-lasting treaty.”

 

The Hunter snarls, but he sits back down, thank Heavens, oh  _thank Heavens._

I'm not sure I could live without a touch of dear Armando's white skin, but I'm bloody well certain I would die if I can't at least work for his name.

  
  


Please, Hunter. Let me serve him. Don't make me go back under that useless southern sky.

I know, by now,  _I could never leave his side._

  
  
  
  
  


The Sun burns right through me, every second of his silence turning my heart into lead. Every moment of hesitation taking away the very sound of Paris' cobblestones, the smell of bread, and French biscuits.

 

The Moon, once more, speaks for my sake, laying a hand on my shoulder, playing the subtleties of his own voice like a harp.

 

-”This could be a unique opportunity in the prospect of future campaigns. With Spain isolated from her Northern lands, we could -

 

-”What proof do I have that this Italian bag of filth, about to betray the country that gave him life, won't betray France just as gladly?”

 

Oh dear God.

  
  


What can I say? What can I say to a man who doesn’t care for words?

 

My song for France won't work on him. He won't be moved by my love for the Loire. He won't be pleased by my praise of red wine. The soldier King doesn't hear pretty speeches, and if he doesn't feel any truth in me, nothing I'm good at can save me from exile.

  
  


I'll wither and die, far from the shadows in red, far from the soft white skin.

I'll wither and die, far from my name in a French voice.

 

We were going to rule the world.

Io e Armando.

  
  


_**No** _ , I cannot bear to lose, I cannot bear to fail.  
My moment in time,  _my chance for fate._

  
I know my hand moved to grab the Red Man's sleeve above my shoulder. I know, because I see it in the Hunter’s widening, furious eyes. I know I'm as good as dead, but how little do I care.

 

_I told you, I could never leave his side._

  
  


I hold the Hunter's gaze, steady despite my shivering.

After all, he'll never sense any truth in me if I don't feel it myself.

 

So I inhale,  _and I speak._

  
  


-”Because what matters in a man's life, Your Majesty, is not the womb that gave him life, but the soil he can truly bloom into.”

 

The words seem to punch him in the guts, and his gasp echoes in the waves of silk behind me. Armando, forgive me, but he left me no choice. I know the name of his Mother has been a forbidden word in the Louvre since that fateful day. But I understand by now, every reason why he chose the soil over the womb at that time, and he needs to know my resolve is just as strong.

 

He leans back in his chair, both his hands laid flat upon the table, his eyes still piercing holes in my neck. I watch for a while his jaw working, and I hear Richelieu's breath above my head hitching in sheer panic.

 

It must last for a few seconds, really, though it will forever seem like an hour, but at the end of it the wild eyes drop to the side, and Louis de France sharply orders:

  
  


-”Cardinal, leave us.”

  
  


Richelieu jumps, the red fabric behind me rusting in anguish. His scent floats around me for a second, and I swear I'll crumble if I can't breathe the same air as this man.

 

I'll wither and die, far away from my fate.

  
  


-”Your Majesty?” I hear him try.

 

-”I said,  _leave us_ .”

 

Gulping, he gently unlocks his sleeve from my fingers and slides away. A bit dazed maybe, I look up at him. His face has dreadfully paled, but something in him still refuses to lose all hope. That's why he obeys, I think, without starting another dance of arguments and bent shoulders. He's terrified, maybe more than I am, but it seems I have truly gained his trust, and if everything else fails, well, at least I'd die a worthy man.

 

He walks to the door, and if his last look is of course for his King, his palpable faith in me is to this day the highest praise I ever got.

 

Once the door clicks shut, Louis de France remains unmoving for exactly three seconds. Then, before I realize it he gets up, almost knocking down his chair in the process. Instinctively I do the same, mesmerized by the burning glare of the Hunter.

Louis strides to me, only stopping one inch away from my chest. He's taller than me, broader than me, a thousand wars rumbling on his skin, and he radiates so much fire I'm beginning to fear he truly is the Sun.

 

His handsome face twisted into a mask of rage, his whole body beaming power, how easily he looms over me now, weighing me like he did those gun barrels earlier, testing my soul, gauging my heart.

 

This unnatural intuition of his is digging into my skin, pulling out my bare soul, crushing the very life of me. I know he saw me grab Richelieu's sleeve. I know he saw everything. He  _feels_ truth, I believe it now, and I wonder if even the Red Man can fool those angry eyes.

 

I wait, holding his gaze if it's the last thing I do, rolling the dice, seizing my chance.

 

My chance at fate, my chance at France.

  
  


At least dying a worthy man.

  
  


It lasts for a minute, it lasts for a century, before I see judgment dawning in his eyes through a haze of dizzy fear. He knows.  _He knows._

 

Maybe more than I do.

 

-”You truly want to serve Richelieu, don't you?” He says at last, and my knees almost buckle.

 

-”More than anything.” I cry.

  
  


But I don't have time to plead. One of his gunpowder-stained hands came to grab my collar and twist it tight enough to choke me. I'm not sure, but I think my feet are not touching the floor anymore,  _miserio me_ , I can't breathe.

 

-”Then do exactly that.” He spits at my face between clenched teeth. “Because if your purpose concerning him is even one dream, one  _thought_ otherwise, I'll have you shot down like a dog in my courtyard like I have done with others before.”

  
  


With that, he lets go of me, and I collapse at his feet like a dead animal. Unmoved, he turns around and leaves, since hunters have little care for a prey once it hits the ground.

  
  


I lay down coughing for a while, but once terror recedes from my chest, I understand the King just allowed me to serve his Shadow in Red, and  _Signore,_ all my pain still feels a bit like victory.

  
  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  



	2. 1637

Seven years.

 

I have been French for seven years.  
  
  
Hell, I've  _always_ been French. But now, it is true for everyone else also. My name has lost a letter along the way, and what's left of it sounds so smooth when pronounced without Italian accents that no one cares to ask how it sounded like before.

  
I am Jules Mazarin.  
I have been French for seven years.

 

 

 

When Louis stormed out of his bedroom seven years ago, Richelieu was waiting. I barely had time to compose myself before he rushed to my side and what I think he whispered then were  _congratulations_ . 

 

-“How about a nice cup of tea,  _Monseigneur Mazarin_ ” he offered for the first time, “then we’ll talk about those little tasks I have for you.”

 

  
And for seven years, I've been standing in that same spot, one step below The Red Man, his voice low enough to be heard by me alone, his gentle presence as my only sunlight, I knew it,  _I knew_ , I could never leave his side. 

 

-”Observe.” He often breathes into my ear before Council begins.

 

 

And that I do.

 

I watch him move, I watch him talk. I see the way he changes his words, his stance, and his voice according to the man he's talking to. I figure out every hint, every note upon scale of his theatrics.

I grasp the subtleties of his work, false-promises, half-truths, and almost-lies. I take in every persuasion technique he invents, every piece of propaganda he produces, every ardent speech he writes.

 

_I observe everything._

 

Later on, when we're alone in his study, he always squeezes my sleeve to whisper with a knowing grin:

 

-”Well, what have you learned?”

 

And together we study, analyze and dissect every sentence, every strategy of every diplomat we meet. We figure out patterns, mechanisms and schemes, designing ways to twist them all to our advantage.

 

Together we write letters, we plan meetings, making lists, taking names.

 

When he thinks I know enough, he sends me on duty, usually to Italy or Spain, with instructions on how to make everyone believe his will is actually their own idea. When he doesn’t, we write gazettes together, creating three counter-attacks for every pamphlet or rumor set against the King.

 

Since a lifetime of war and politics has left his credibility as a Man of the Church somewhat damaged, The Red Man made sure mine shines brighter than anyone's, blackmailing the Pope into giving me permanent Nonce duties and clerical titles. Blatantly ignoring the fact that I have always been a secular man, to this day he's still pulling all the strings he can to make me a Cardinal.

 

 

-”I am a Captain of the Italian army” I once said to him. “I didn't even take any vow.”

 

-”Soldiers make excellent Cardinals.” He gently smiled. “And to be honest, clerical vows are just another kind of political promises.”

 

My aura as permanent Nonce has already got pretty work done in the area of propaganda, my prolific support making Richelieu's measures look a little more –  _virtuous_ \- when needs must, and I'm sure once I too will wear the wide red robes, our word will seem  _unquestionable._

 

 

We'll rule the world, _io e Armando._

 

_Io e Armando._

 

 

 

Here I am right next to him, where I always wanted to be, living one flight of stairs below his feet, one flight of stairs no less, one flight of stairs no more. I'm in the Louvre,  _I'm in the Louvre,_ and I always will.

 

I am Jules Mazarin, French forevermore, French by my own heart, French by his own will.  
He is turning me into my future self, he's teaching me all of his art.

 

In exchange, he wants me to serve France, and serve France, Oddio _, how I do._

 

 

I serve her, giving my sweat and blood to deserve the right to call this country mine, its wine and food tasting so much better on a tongue that doesn't roll the R's anymore. I am one with the cobblestones of Paris, with the twists and turns of the Loire, with the radiant hills of Guyenne.

 

More than anything, I am one with _him_ . 

I am his shadow, his eyes and ears, I am his mirror, his reflection, his plans.

 

I give him my time, my heart, my soul, and it brings me completion it's true, but though I was sure the passing years would ease all of my worries, they did nothing against the pain of never being allowed to give him  _anything more than that._

 

Seven years.

Seven years without a touch of his soft skin.

 

 

Only in times of great victories, when my work made the prestige of France take a leap forward, when my speech earned us wealthy new allies, when my meddling made the winds of diplomacy blow in our backs, in his excitement he opened his arms for me.

 

Once or twice no more, in this embrace I kissed his cheek, lingering just a few seconds beyond etiquette, my nails scratching his sleeves in need, my lips brushing down his jaw.

 

He always had a start, as if he was surprised I was still in love with him.

He always had a hitch, torn between refusal and the laws of  _gratitude_ . 

 

But every time, without exception, he quietly stepped away from my affection.

 

 

Is it fear of sin, just like me in the first nights? I don’t think so. Working with him made his opinion upon sin quite clear to me. He can gladly disregard any kind of damnation if the purpose is high enough. Deep inside, Richelieu knows he’s already damned a thousand times, and doesn’t care much for one more breach in his virtue.

 

Is it loyalty towards Louis? Well –  _I’m not sure_ . God knows I watched, God knows I searched, but nothing in their words, their gestures or even their eyes ever betrayed anything about their bond being more than raw, intense feeling. 

 

They love each other.

I have no evidence, but I’d wager my own life upon it. I don’t dare to approach the King too much, but I know Armand by heart. I saw from the very first day how deeply sick his nerves are. The fever, the nightmares, the migraines, the trembling. His emotions are eating him alive, torturing him day and night, madness in his mind barely kept in line by inhuman efforts and remarkable wits. Once you learn to read beyond his facade of stoicism, his feelings almost slap you in the face. He loves Louis. More than life, more than anything.

 

More than anyone could even hope to be loved.

A love so unconditional it’s almost  _divine._

 

And though the soldier King is constantly at war, with his enemies or within himself, his fury blinding his senses and poisoning his thoughts, the way Armand’s mere presence soothes his rage is unmistakable. Louis is drawn to his Red Man, almost by a higher force, and though Richelieu is the target of his foulest fits of violence, Louis' need to keep him close is painfully obvious.

 

The King always asks for his advice, even if they'll fight over it. He shouts, he refuses, he insults and he threatens, but in the end, as sure as morning comes, he calls his Moon back to him.

 

He always calls him back.

 

What happens then, when the Hunter summons Armand in his apartments late at night, I don’t think anyone will ever know. But if the Christian King too disregards sin for this brilliant, exceptional man, I can’t see how such a rare feeling could be denied its carnal language.

 

They love each other, the Sun and his Moon, as sure as night follows the day.  
Maybe they’re lovers, the Hunter and the Snake, and only the Louvre's walls can tell.

 

 

Still, when the need for something to hold onto is too strong for my will, I make plans to use for my own sake the solid laws of his gratitude. Someday, maybe, when my sweat and blood will feed the soil of France to his satisfaction, he will consent,  _once_ , to grant me a touch of his precious skin. 

 

Until then, well,  _until then_ , I am Jules Mazarin, and I serve France the way he tells me to. 

 

***

 


	3. 1639

It's that cough again. It's dry, and it's nasty, with a disgusting wheeze underneath. He's very good at hiding it, he's very brave in his suffering, but to those closest to him he cannot hide its worsening.

 

His health is spiraling down.

 

 

The cough lingers, and soon enough he needs to sit down, pressing his hand against his chest. It's not good, and he knows it. He knows it far too well.

 

He has been spending a lot of time with me lately.

 

 

He has shown me those books I could never touch before. His memoirs, his diaries, and even this hidden shelf in his bedroom, where he keeps priceless files about pretty much anyone with any political influence in Europe. They're all there, French nobility, German officers, Spanish spies, Italian clergymen. Their homes, their friends, their families, their secrets. It's all there, in maps and charts and accounts.

 

His deadliest weapon. _Information._

 

 

-”Use it wisely” he told me. “Once you show the world you know something, that piece of knowledge is dead to you.”

 

 

We share endless days and sleepless nights, where he tells me everything he knows about alliances between the Grands, and how to keep them all under my eye. He pulls out letters and evidence I didn't even know of, exposing the most intricate plots prepared by diplomats and Ministers all around France. He teaches me codes and passwords to his insane network of informants, asking me to memorize a hundred names and burn the list in front of him.

 

 

True, his dear Joseph passed away last year, and he's still shaken by grief. He spent a week in bed, crying like a man torn in pieces, and I'm sure for at least three days he wanted nothing more than to join his friend in death.

 

But life called, taking Louis' form, as the King himself came to his bedroom to growl strength back into him. Despite sickness, and despite time, this bond between them is stronger than ever, blending them both into the fabric of History, so powerful I can't but yield in front of its sheer beauty.

 

 

He got up and he kept on, for Louis, for France, for this work that's killing him. He's brave in his suffering, he's good at smiling through it, but he knows, of course he knows.

 

_Time is running short._

 

 

He knows, and so do I. I watch in growing panic his cheeks whitening, his throat constricting, his lively eyes of warm honey dulled and damaged by exhaustion. I watch and count the days, feeling his inescapable end coming near just like he does, with the added bitterness of watching him die without a touch of his soft skin.

 

 

No, I'm not bitter.  
  
_I'm enraged._

 

 

 

He's my fate, my destiny, he's the face of my future, and though I have known, and will know other embraces, he will forever remain the love of my life. He's my mentor, my guide, my everything.

 

_Il mio padrone._

 

 

And I am sitting here, watching him die on me without a moment of that tender bliss I know we both could share.

 

I am French, undoubtedly by now.

I am Cardinal-diacritic, wearing red just as he does.

I am respected, in my country and far beyond.

 

I am rich, more than a Prince, more than some Kings.

 

 

And yet I'm sitting there, burning, unfulfilled, watching sickness and exhaustion slowly take him away from me. It's unfair, it's outrageous. _It's unbearable._

 

He coughs some more, the last fit tearing his lungs apart. I get up and fetch some hot water for his tea. He takes the cup from my hands with a delightful smile, and my heart swells a little. He's sick, it's true, but he's still there. His hair is still smooth and soft, his hands steady, his stance graceful. His eyes, behind a veil of tiredness, are still alight with feeling, shining with intellect.

 

He's sick, yes he is, but he isn't dead yet.

Against my fingers, his skin is just as soft as on that very first day, in Pierre Encise of Lyon.

 

 

 

 

Overjoyed by relief, I'm about to try a short praise, or quote a poem for him maybe, but as he speaks first, my revived heart instantly sinks.

 

-”You need to get closer to the King.” He quietly rasps. “When I'm gone, he will need continuity in support.”

 

 

And I swear it's only pain and heartbreak, bitterness and fear forcing me to let out that dark chuckle as I reply :

 

-”The King won't outlive you by a year.”

 

 

 

 

The cup shatters in a delicate, almost harmonious sound.

 

 

 

 

I'm straightening my back, clenching my jaw, already regretting my words. But now they're out, I won't cower away. He's looking up at me, wide eyes tearing up, his hands wrapped around each other upon his heart again. He doesn't speak, he just shakes his head, refusing to even think of what I said.

 

Dear _Armando_. So clever concerning the whole world, and yet lost as a child as soon as Louis is mentioned. He's not blind, he saw just as I did the King's own health growing capricious and ragged. Not a month passes without a day in bed, nailed down by a spill of blood in the guts, or a nasty infection of the lungs.

 

He saw, just as I did, but he refused to understand. To him, the King is more than a body, more than a man.

 

To him, the Moon may disappear, a new one will arise.

He's not ready to understand his Sun will fade out too.

 

 

 

No more, in fact than I admit I am.

 

 

 

 

I sigh, walk to the hearth to feed the fire, and take a look around the study. It's my favorite place in the world. The place where he built, piece by piece, everything that I am. This table we play chess upon, this shelf he keeps my writing into. My favorite wine in his cupboard. A portrait of me, not even the best, that he once pinned above his cabinet of curiosities.

 

-”Your rightful place.” He laughed as he stepped back, and I replied in Italian something I found too crude for French.

 

 

He didn't understand, but he smiled anyways. He trusted me never to be truly foul.

And to this day he still does.

 

 

I feel his gaze following me, heavy as a whole world of pain; so I push another chair closer to him, sit down and give him time. In his bright eyes I already see reason emerging, pushing up agony and grief with it to the surface. Before I can open my mouth he shudders and starts crying, which is good, knowing him after all.

 

 

His emotions, they hurt him so bad on the inside that I prefer them out in the open, no matter how loud they are.

 

I let him sob until he calms down, my eyes remaining upon his handwriting in the financial accounts left opened on his knees for as much time as he needs. I pull out my handkerchief then, and wipe off his tears with the adoration he knows I still feel.

 

 

 

 

-”Please understand, Master,” I whisper to the rim of his cloak on his shoulder, “that I only told you what needed to be said.”

 

 

Despite his pain he still manages to smile, because he knows I sound just like him.  
He nods, his fingers closing around my wrist, making me freeze in my moves with my handkerchief still on his face.

 

-”You did well, Jules. You might be right. We need to be prepared for every outcome, even those we find painful to imagine.”

 

 

He smells of tea and ink. He smells of soap and autumn.  
God, he's still so beautiful, caught between fire and candlelight, silver hair hanging low on his white cheeks.

 

-”What needs to be done if the King doesn't live?” I ask, but I wouldn't move for an army.

 

 

He frowns, a short whine of raw pain escaping his throat as he makes the tremendous effort to picture Louis gone from this world. I watch him forcing his mind to work until I feel his torture in my own guts, so vividly that when he starts speaking again, my forehead is touching his temple in support.

 

-”If the King is doomed to succumb we need to switch targets.” He croaks, “The next in line for power would be Queen Anne. It's her you should turn your attention to.”

 

 

I nod, softly, trying not to disturb his thinking. I don't like where he's going, but my wrist is still in his hand, and that's all that matters.

 

 

-”I need to get closer to her.” I confirm.

 

 

-”Yes, starting right now, or else your getting near might be considered self-interested.”

 

 

I realize I had closed my eyes because they just snapped open.

 

 

 

-”How near exactly, Master?” I cautiously ask, looking up to search for his stare.

 

I find it bright and clear, fixed upon me with red-rimmed certainty.

 

 

-”As near as you can.” He breathes, _God,_ _**no** _ _._

 

 

-”Meaning, her bed?” I stammer.

 

 

-”Meaning _as near as you can_. “

 

 

 

 

I slump back in my chair, eyes down, panting.

Queen Anne is everything I hate squeezed in a satin dress. She's dull, she's cold, she's vain and she's fat. She's the worst Spain could ever produce, and I've seen a lot of Spain, trust me.

 

Seducing her would mean years, decades of lies, faking romance and bigotry alike, rubbing elbows with those who corrupt France like a plague. Sleeping with her would mean loveless nights of boring sex, stroking damp skin and moaning false praise.

 

Serving my purpose would mean suffocating under an old woman's perfumes, and in a dreadful flash of realization I remember this is exactly what Armand has done.

 

For fifteen years, with the King's mother.

 

 

 _Oddio, I_ _**am** _ _following his steps._   
Fate, somewhere, must be laughing at me.

 

 

 

I look back into his eyes. He knows, he always does.  
There are no secrets between us, so God has decided.

 

 

He knows exactly what he's asking of me, what kind of suffering, what kind of sacrifice, and yet he still asks, resolute, trusting my will to serve France without a hint of doubt. I hold his gaze, and because I think we both know my mind is already made up, my own tears start to roll down my cheeks.

He uses my handkerchief to return the gesture I just had for him, a deep frown of sympathy knitting his noble brow.

 

 

-”My dear Jules, remember” he exhales, “France will be grateful forevermore.”

 

 

-”The _Hell_ with France.” I hiss without a thought.

 

 

 

When he gasps, his hand retreating from my face, I realize what I have said. I mean to apologize, _no, this is not what I meant, of course_ , but the bitter rage in my heart seals my lips before the first word comes out, and I just stare into his confused eyes without a sound.

 

I love France, I swear I always will, but really, truly, as reward for those upcoming decades of numb torture, I want more, much more than just her _gratitude_ .

_I want his._

 

 

I want him.

 

 

 

Transported by almost ten years of selfless devotion, and the agony of seeing my last sunlight slowly receding, my hand goes up to take his and pull it back towards me.  
  


-”I will do it.” I promise, and I never lied to him once. “I'll do it for as long as it takes. I'll seduce her, I'll bed her, and while I do that, I'll make sure our vision remains her priority. I’ll persuade her that’s her own plan, just the way you taught me to. I’ll smile to the Spanish, I'll watch over the Dauphin, I'll keep a hold upon finance, I'll be everything you need me to be, you know I will, until my very last breath.”

 

His stare waters once more, this time in sheer relief, as he smiles at me with fondness and pride, parting his lips for a heartfelt sentence _, oh no_ _just you wait, Armando, I'm not done yet._

 

-”But I want one thing in exchange.” I add, my tone definite.

 

 

His eyes of burning honey widen, his words tangle in his throat, and he gauges me up and down in utter turmoil.

 

-”Jules, I don't understand.” He gingerly starts. “You are my equal, no less, in prestige and Cardinality. I have forged your name, your past, your future and your mind. Concerning material things, well, I think your wealth by now must surpass my very own. Tell me, dearest, what did I fail to give you still?”

 

 

I don't reply. _I don't need to_ .  
A slow circle of my thumb against the soft, sensitive skin of his wrist is more than enough.

 

Again, once more, he jumps. Again, once more, his breath hitches.

 

 

But for the first time, maybe, instead of crawling out of my reach, he simply tilts his head on the side to have a look at himself in this wide copper teapot on the table next to us, shining as a mirror.

 

He frowns at his reflection, muttering a few words I don't pick up. I ask him to repeat them, and he turns to me in disbelief.

 

-”How can you _still_ want this?”

 

 

By “this”, he clearly meant himself, and I feel more insulted than a man slapped in the face.

 

-” _ **This**_?” I growl, defiant, passionate, unable to hold back the ardent fire I have been containing for so long. “This? This is the most brilliant man of this century, this is the most delicate skin on Earth. This, Master, has been my dawn and my twilight for ten years now, and will be forevermore, to the last of the miserable days I'll be forced to live without it. This, _caro_ _Armando_ , is the most beautiful man I've ever known, and I've been burning in love for him since the very first glance.”

 

 

 

He's trembling. I don't know when it started exactly in my fervent speech, but he's trembling like a leaf by now. His breaths are short, uneven, and he's looking at me as if I was a madman with a pistol.

A filthy wheeze has returned, crackling like fire into his lungs, and if he doesn't calm down, he'll soon be coughing again.

 

Forgive me, _padrone_ , forgive me, I know you're tired.  
But I’m desperate, I’m in love, and I’m _enraged_ , because I feel it in my heart just like you feel it in your bones.

 

_Time is running short._

 

 

-”I'm not asking for much, Master.” I beg, my warm lips against his shaking hand. “Just one night. Something of you to keep with me, for darker days to come. Please, _Armando_ , just once. No one will ever know.”

 

There is a flash of doubt in his worried eyes, but quickly vanished as his frown softens to a distant, dreamy stare. He seems to be inspecting my fingers one by one, but I know by now it's the look he has when he's calculating. His breath is still ragged and pained, but at least, the trembling calms down.

I wait, eyes on the floor, silent and hopeful, my fate suspended on the corner of his lips as it has always been, only this time with an anguished trepidation I've never known before.

 

I barely realize I just risked everything.  
My last chance at fate. _My only chance at him._

 

I wait, quartered between fear and trust, every second like a mile of barren land, chanting prayers to the solid laws of his gratitude, until his soft, gentle voice finally breathes:

 

-”For all the things you have done for France, and for all the things you're about to do for her...”

 

I look up. He just has a vague gesture of his hands and a faint nod.

No. That's not nearly enough. I want him to _say it_.

 

-”Will you lay down with me?” I croak, ecstatic.

 

He clenches his jaw, averting his gaze, and I know he's terrified. But there he is, brave as he'll ever be, taking a deep labored breath, and staring right into my eye as he lets out:

-”Yes.”

 

Every scrap of my skin catches fire on that very word, and maddened by the sound of it, I moan like a man starved, throwing myself upon him, my mouth already on his, tender, but frantic. He whimpers, panicked, and pushes me away with surprising force.

He's sick, yes he is, but _he isn't dead yet._

 

 

-”Not now.” He hisses. “Not here.”

I almost stumble down my chair onto the floor, mumbling a confused, heated apology. His cheeks are flushed pink, and though he looks very much outraged, he brushes his bottom lip dry with a cautious, intrigued thumb instead of wiping himself clean with the back of an angry hand.

 

 

When the need for something to hold onto will be too strong, _heh, I might hold on to that._

 

 

 

He harshly orders me to stand up and step back.

I don't worry too much. It’s alright, I understand.

 

It all has been a lot to take in for him.

 

He's dying.

So is his King.

 

Everything depends on me by now, and while I could have asked for gold or titles, here I come with that sinful, dangerous bargain.

 

 

I am sorry, so sorry _Armando_ , but you need to understand, Queen Anne is everything I hate, and I can't stand to watch you die without a touch of your white skin.

 

 

He stands up too, swaying lightly, and starts pacing through the room. I know him, I know him by heart, what he's doing right now is sealing our deal in thick layers of precautions, burning all loose ends, securing details. That's how he deals with fear. He _machinates_ , distracted fingertips passing upon bookshelves, papers and chairs. He doesn't look at me, he doesn't look at anything, he's making lists inside his mind, he's plotting lies under his breath.

 

Again, I don't worry too much.  
If there is one thing this man masters, it is the delicate process of fabricating secrets.

 

 

But though I expected him to growl and fuss over the nature of the price I'm asking of him, I find, in the dubious looks he has for both my face and his own in window glasses, that my feelings for him, unchanged since Pierre Encise, seem to be the hardest notion to process.

 

 

My guts scream for me to speak some more, make him understand how precious he is to me, but my mind knows I've said enough, and that he needs his space to think.

So I wait, eyes on the floor, my heart suspended at the corners of his lips.  
_  
As it has been for ten long years._

 

 

 

By the time he walks back to me, I've started to arrange some of his papers to occupy my hands and hide the fever on my skin, set aflame with excitement.

I turn to him, expectant, as he rectifies my ordering of the colonies trading accounts.

 

-”By name, Jules, not by location.” He mutters, and I nod obediently.

 

He taps his hand upon the stack of document and very simply, very naturally, he takes one small, one magnificent step closer. That one step I have hoped for all my life. The step that crosses the thin white line between decency and _invitation._

 

-”Don't change a thing in your routine,” he whispers in my ear. “just wait for me in your rooms tonight.”

 

 

 

I'm afraid I can't offer him any better answer than this low whimper of need.

With that, he has a worried look over his shoulder and leaves the room in pained elegance.

 

 

I worry I might faint, my body burning like a torch, and I feel more than a bit dizzy. But I still need to know what he did look at before he left, and repressing my shivers I follow his last gaze.

 

 

To find, _of course,_ a superb portrait of Louis de France, neatly hung above his mantelpiece.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

The rest of the day passed in a blur of unfocused agitation. I did absolutely nothing good with my mind or my hands that day, and I had to give all the willpower I had to make it look like another Monday evening.

 

 

I knew, on the other hand, that the Red Man was spending his time actively making sure his visit would pass unnoticed, from the lowest of valets to the King himself, and I was positive that he managed to make it look like every other day much better than I did.

 

 _Miserio me_ , time is running short, and I still have so much to learn.

 

 

I held a decent facade for supper, and gave the night off to my servants as nonchalantly as ever, but once the doors of my bedrooms were locked behind my back, I nearly burst into tears of frustration.

 

 

 

 

I prepared wine, arranging the glasses five useless times on the chess table. I displayed Bouchons de Bordeaux, because I thought it'd make him laugh, and after all we might need that.

 

I took a thorough bath, and worried for the first time about my receding hairline, my legs being too short, my hands being too small. I changed outfits twice, putting on my formal robes, then taking off everything, choosing a secular shirt instead, and a pair of pants that had survived my army years. On a whim, I hid my bible in a drawer, and threw a tablecloth upon the Holy Cross above my bed.

 

The red robes and decorum would honor the life he gave to me of course, but somehow I felt he’d appreciate more if I left God out of this room entirely.

 

 

 

When soon after midnight a sharp knock hit my door, making my heart leap, by the way he looked as I opened for him I knew I had guessed alright.

 

 

 

 

 

He’s not wearing a _hint_ of red. He has some kind of loose white nightshirt thrown upon his shoulders, and the less conspicuous brown dressing gown I’ve never seen. His hair is tied back the way some riders do, and he seems to have walked here without candle. The corridors are pitch black at this time of the night, and of course, I’m sure no one has caught even a glimpse of him.

 

He gently pushes me aside to slide into the room, breaking the spell of my fascination.

I stammer something mediocre, and lock the thick doors twice.

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t say a word, sweeping a polite look around my bedroom. Everything he sees, I owe him. Most of those paintings, he chose for me. Those books, I bought to impress him, and this bed, o _h, this bed,_ if only he knew the hours I spent there with his name on my lips.

 

He’s there, he’s real, he’s in my room, this is the night. _That one night._

 

 

 

I should run and embrace him, but where is my rage, my courage now?

Now that he’s standing in front of me, tall and magnificent despite his plain linen shirt, the righteousness I felt as I asked this price of him has deserted me. In a thousand lives, I could never hope to achieve even half of this grace, and now that I’m bound to touch it, I feel humbled and insecure.

 

 

He turns to me after a while, his face controlled, his voice blank, and he shrugs his nightgown off so quickly that I let out a strangled moan.

 

-“Where do you want it to be?” He asks, and I understand he steeled himself for something painful and quick, oh Lord, is this what he expects of _me?_

 

My stomach turns to lead.

 

-“No! No, _per favore,_ Master. Not like this.” I beg, taking him by the arm with all the devotion I can express, and softly pushing him towards my best armchair next to the hearth.

 

-“Can we just talk?” I babble. “We do have time, don’t we?”

 

 

And as he sits, I think I hear a sigh of relief, _for God’s sake who did he think I am?_  
  
Well, someone who leaped on his mouth like a famished wolf at the first word of consent, maybe.

 

 

 

Swallowing my guilt, I offer him his favorite wine, and push the biscuits towards him. At the sight of them he laughs, just as I thought, and this fond, genuine sound breathes confidence back into my chest.

 

It’s good, really, because I'll bloody need it.

 

I want to speak. I want to please him the way I do best first, with my wits, my work, my words.  
I want to seduce him with praise, quotes and poems, just like in Pierre Encise, so many years ago.

 

I want his eyes to shine in enjoyment, and only then _,_ I’ll make them blur in pleasure.

 

I let him take his first sip, push a chair next to him so that our legs almost touch, and when he throws me a questioning glance, I work my magic again.

I don’t really have to think. These words, these moves, I’ve seen them in daydream a thousand times. I’ve watched and watched those pictures upon the stage of my closed eyelids for countless nights, countless days. They just fly out of my heart easily, like birds can do, and while my speech paints a whole world for his sole entertainment, I see with radiant joy those furtive smiles blooming on his face once more.

 

The fire and the wine warm up his tired body, and I rejoice to see that my passion for every delight of France charms him just as much as on the first day. God, how beautiful he is, slumping a bit in his chair, chuckling at my superlatives, and maybe at this cursed Italian accent, always coming back when I’m fervent.

 

I pour him more wine, yes, maybe I’m getting him drunk, but no further than to help him relax, and I think he knows. He always trusted me never to be truly foul.

 

_And to this day he still does._

 

He accepts the wine, he welcomes my praise, and at some point, his cheeks take this delicious shade of pink again, and I chose that moment to brush a hand upon his thigh through the light fabric of his nightgown. He has a start, but not as much as I feared. The rush of panic in his eyes is quickly pushed away, and he lowers his eyelids.

 

It hits me then, so hard I have to stop and stare.  
_He lowered his eyelids._

 

It’s subtle, but it’s plain to see. God, of course, how could I expect anything else.

 

In my daydreams, in all of them, my Master was superior, demanding, _imperative._ In my fantasies, in all of them, I have seen him take what he needs and order me around, leaving me breathless and defeated, like all the battlefields that crossed his path.

But I’ve been blind. I’ve been stupid.

 

I should have known, I saw the way he looks at the Hunter. I should have known, fool that I am.  
Of course, he submits himself in intimacy. Of course, how could I expect anything else.  
  
Power is such a burden sometimes.

 

I stay there, suspended, my hand stroking his smooth slender thigh, watching him drop his shoulders without thinking, his neck offered invitingly, and I feel a growing certainty that this kind of grace does happen more often that not.

This is not an instinct for him. _This is a routine._

 

The Sun and the Moon.  
The Hunter and the Snake.  
  
  
They are lovers, _of course they are._

 

 

I bite my lips upon a surge of sour jealousy towards the Soldier King. He has the privilege to witness, whenever he pleases, the breathtaking sight of the conqueror of strongholds, the Red Demon of the Louvre, lowering his eyes and sliding to his knees. I hope with all my heart he does everything he can to deserve that glory.

 

I withdraw my hand. I don't want it that way. _I don't want anything the King gets._   
If the Hunter conquered everything, if there is nothing left for me to win except this one night with the man I love, I want something that would be mine and mine alone.

That would mean, no doubt, pushing dear _Armando_ out of his habits, but I'd rather do that, I think, than to steal a golden coin out of Louis de France's private treasure.

 

-”Jules?”

 

The quiver in his voice makes me realize I just flinched away from his skin without an explanation, and as I look up, I watch with distress insecurities darkening his tormented eyes.

 

Oh, God.

 

-” _Armando!_ ” Is all I can say.

 

I stand, but keep myself low, bowing under his eye level, and cup his face with my both hands. He gasps, mesmerized, and his glass of wine falls on its side on the table as he fails to put it down. The glass doesn't break.

_My restraint does._

 

I crawl up to him and kiss his parted lips, fighting my need with as much control as I can. I want it to be tender, I want it to be soft, but _Dio_ , the _whimper_ he lets out. His hands freeze, at first, gripping the armrest of his chair, but as I lick his mouth open and let my tongue slide upon his, he has a delighted shiver, and his fingertips come to brush my sleeves.

 

He tastes so good I fear I might fall, so I slide one knee between his legs for balance, making him cry out in surprise, Heavens, the sounds of him. Someone is moaning, I think it's me, and as I devour a hazy path down his throat, I already feel myself hard and dripping, pushing painfully against the front of my pants.

I spend some time in the crook of his neck, for his skin there seems to be most sensitive, and he finds me now the most eager of students once more, learning the way his breath hitches, the way his cries vibrate.

 

'Observe.' He often breathes into my ear.

 

 

_And that I do._

 

 

I find the spots that make him moan, I find the moves that make him whine, and giving him all my wits, all my care, I patiently unbutton the front of his nightshirt. I still feel him tense in worry from time to time, but soon enough his fear surrenders to the licks and bites my mouth worships him with.

 

By the time I gently crawl down the skin his nightshirt revealed, he lets me do it all without a single twitch.

 

I kiss everywhere, I kiss everything, demented by the taste, the smell of him, leaving a wet trail of veneration on his thin, shaking ribcage. I slide downwards, slowly, like sand in a hourglass, inexorably dancing upon the song of time.

 

At the end of my journey, I'm where I always wanted to be, on my knees between his open legs, my eyes into his, my hands on his thighs. His nightshirt is opened, but I don't pull the fabric apart yet. I look down and up again, sweeping a hungry tongue upon my lips, making myself clear, making myself bold.

 

 

His eyebrows rise, and I grin in mischievous glee. I know him, I know him by heart.  
No one has ever done that to him.

  
The Hunter never kneels.

 

 

 

_Well, I gladly will._

 

 

 

 

I'm far too aroused, far too fevered, and he takes far too long to say yes.

So I stick out my tongue, and gently press it against the tip of his cock, through the fabric of his shirt, forcing a shudder of want out of him.

-”Please.” I breathe against the wet spot I just created, and he just cries out, biting hard into his closed fist.

 

He's loud. _Oddio, I dreamed him so._

 

I keep my stare fixed upon his, triumphant at how glassy they are, and apply my tongue once more, using two fingers to stroke down his length, only hinting at what I could do. He lets me tease him so three or four times, and though I see him struggling with fear and disbelief, I feel him hardening fast under my care. When I lean down for the fifth time, with a whimper of frustration he flaps his own shirt open.

 

Taking what he wants. Very good.

He's sublime, flushed red and restless, his long white legs brushing against my arms in senseless cadenza. His shaft is soft, slender just like the rest of him, and the _thirst_ it ignites in me, I barely understand.

 

How little do I care.

-”Master.” I sigh, and I swallow him whole.

 

He yells, one hand still gripping my sleeve, the other hovering above my head, _yes, Padrone, command me_ . I blindly reach for his wrist, pull his hand into my hair, _control me, teach me everything_.

I start to lick up and down, feeling his thin fingers around my head curling in pleasure, shooting pain and bliss right down my spine. He's my first man, he'll be my last, and I just want to be good, so I do it the way I like to see it done for myself, learning with sharp focus the subtleties of his cries.

He feels smooth. He feels amazing. I hollow my cheeks, and he moans my name. _“Jules”_ , he says, and one of his legs wraps itself around my back, the provocation in it making me shudder in pleasure. As I move my head up and down my hips jolt on their own will. Inside my pants, the friction is subtle, but in my state of sheer frenzy, it's enough to drive me wild.

Demented, I slide a hand under his balls, press a finger gently upwards, the way the best whores of Turin do. He has a violent spasm, and I look up in worry.

But what I see is that magnificent man completely lost in bliss, two of his fingertips between his lips, licking them on the rhythm of my own moves. His eyes are half-closed, still watching me closely, and when he breathes my name once more with broken tones of _admiration_ in his voice, in a low cry I grab my groin tight.

Too late. I shout in ecstasy, coming hard,untouched, spilling hot semen in my old pants.

 

I think I've let go of him at some point, because after a while I find myself with my head against his thigh, blinking away the aftershocks of my pleasure, moaning with every breath like a dying man.

When I'm able to look at him again, he's stroking my hair, a bit anxious maybe, hardly believing he could do this to anyone, oh, _mi amore_ , you have no idea.

 

Hissing in vague disgust, I pull off my pants and shirt, throwing them away beyond the bed. With my skin still tingling with bliss, I dive back upon the soft skin of his sides, licking hungrily at the elegant line of his hipbones, making it clear I intend to finish what I've started.  
But I don't like how silent he remains, and end up searching for his eyes once more.  
  
He's looking at me alright. Not at my face, at _everything._   
Oddio, I didn't even realize I just stripped myself naked.

 

I freeze, terrified to see his brow frowning. Men of the South are still rare in Paris, and my olive skin, my black patches of hair, it might all seem foreign to him. I wince instinctively. I am not the Hunter. Not as muscular, no doubt. Not as lean. Too many years in politics, and too much taste for French food. _Of course, what was I thinking._

 

I'm not handsome to him.  
  
I lower my head, preparing apologies, but before I speak, his gentle hand curls around my chin and lifts it up until I meet his gaze.

He smiles, then, Heavenly creature, _Santo tra i santi_ , and speaks between two ragged breaths:

-”You're young and soft. I don't deserve you.”

 

He must have seen my face changing from shame to outrage in a heartbeat, because he laughs quietly, and silences my protest by a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. With a slow circle of his tongue I forget everything about anger, and lower myself down upon him again.

 

He welcomes my mouth around his cock once more with a long raspy moan, his head hitting the back of the armchair. Ecstatic, transported with love, I stroke and lick and rub in steady rhythms, sending him to new heights of cries, feeling myself hardening again. I don't think it ever happened so fast for me, but he's there, he's real, _it's him at last_ , how could it be any different?

After a while, I hear the armchair creaking, because his hips are moving with my mouth. I barely can restrain his fiery thrusts with both my hands pressed on his thighs, trying to focus through the mist of arousal his screams push me into.

 

I feel him tense, and I sense him close, but he ruins my triumph with a firm hand gripping my hair, pulling me away. I let go of him again with a wet slick noise, and look into his eyes with a pleading whine.

 

-” _Armando_...” I beg, but he shakes his head, laying a trembling finger on his mouth.

 

-”If you want more than this, dearest” he pants around his fingertip, “say it now, because at my age, you don't get second chances anymore.”

 

Dizzy with need, stupid with lust, I take a few seconds to get the meaning of his words, and when I do, I can't help a smirk of wicked satisfaction.

 

He was close.  
_He wants more._

 

 

I crawl up and kiss the corner of his lips. Of course, _amore_ , of course, I want everything too.  
If you only knew, the nights I've spent picturing this. Every detail, every touch, played again and again upon the stage of my closed eyelids.  
  
If you only knew, _Armando_ , how the sight and sound of you are a thousand times better than my wildest dreams.

 

Upon a last nibble of his ear I tiptoe to the bed, opening the sheets and sliding in. I extend my hand, and beckon him, showing more confidence that I really feel. It seems to work, though, as he crawls to my side with a hazy smile. He hasn't let go of the nightshirt, hanging loose around his shoulders, and I won't force him to. Those last five years have been harsh with him, it's true, and understand he won't believe me if I told him how perfect he is to me.

 

We kiss some more, lazy and drunk on each other, and as the kiss grows heated he resolutely presses himself against me, thrusting slightly against my side, lifting a thigh to brush my cock.

 

God, he _does_ want more.  
He's eager, demanding, _imperative._

Taking what he wants, the way I dreamed him to.

_Very good._

 

-”Will you take me, Master?” I rasp, and he stops dead, making me mewl in frustration like the lowest of whores.

 

Again, in his eyes, I read clear as day that's the first time he's been asked for this. I feel a proud grin curling my lips once more. Something mine, and mine alone.

 

The Hunter doesn't yield.  
_  
Well I gladly will._

 

 

I don't think he's about to refuse me, not in the _state_ he's in right now, but another worry seems to bother him, restraining him to hesitant, suspended moves, and though I have to look deep into his eyes to understand this time, I still know him. I know him by heart.

  
 _Of course._   
He knows how to do it, I'm sure he does, but he'll sure die before he reveals it.

He didn't notice I guessed he's the King's lover, and it might be the highest deed of my career, because if I ever betray myself, no matter how fond he is of me, I'll wake up dead in my own bed.

 

I cup his cheeks, make up a reassuring smile, kiss his mouth reverently, and breathe against his lips

-”I've read some books.” I say. “The censored ones, in the white trunk. _Trust me_.”

 

He frowns slightly. He never authorized me to read those books. Well, forgive me _, caro Armando_ , I had to feed these daydreams of mine somehow, and your key's aren't so well hidden.

I keep my smile on, fumbling under my mattress for a small vial of oil. Under his wide, fascinated gaze, I pour half of it all into one hand, and curl the other around the back of his neck. I pull him against me, lock our legs together, align our cocks, and without a hitch, I start working myself open, my eyes boring into his.

 

At the first start of my hips, he already cries out, our lengths rubbing deliciously against each other. The faint wet sounds my fingers make as they slide in and out of myself seem to unlock something in him, and he starts devouring the skin of my shoulder with short, famished breaths.

 

-” _**Ah,** _ _Armando!_ ”

 

He shivers. I think he likes his name, with that damned Italian accent.  
Somehow it redeems those Rs I never wanted to roll anymore.

 

The bedsheets rustle as my thrusts deepen, and when my fingertips hit that spot inside of me, I let out short moans of pleasure, making him wild with hunger. His hands around my back become violent, scratching my skin, digging small wounds, and I'll worship those scars as the highest of gifts.

My hips are controlled by the twists of my hand, and he follows my rhythm with his slender, supple limbs. The friction is perfect, his cries a divine sound, but this night is all I'll ever have, and I do want everything.

-”Please, Master” I pant, whirling in bliss, “I am ready.”

 

 

Before I even exhale the last word, he pushes me until my back hits the mattress, snatches my hand away from myself with a dark light in his eyes, and thrusts into me in one smooth, merciless move.

 

I wail, oh, _amore_ .  
  
Superior, _demanding.  
_ A thousand times better than dreams.

 

I lift my legs high, cross my ankles behind his backside, and let myself be possessed. There's uncertainty in the knots of his brow, there's a bit of dread on the corner of his eyes, but he seems to be driven by a higher force, and for what he does to me, I have no words.

He's caring, he's focused, and I feel him trying to control himself with all his strength. I cry out his name. He wants it to be good.

  


I never thought he could gather so much cleverness so close to orgasm, but isn't he Machiavelli, isn't he the Red Snake? He shifts his angle, changes his rhythm, narrowing his eyes, watching my face, feeling my shudder under his palms, _Oddio, he's observing me._   
  
He's learning me.

  


Under his watchful stare soon enough I'm nothing but a heap of muttering flesh, submitted to his smallest move, holding onto him like on life itself.

I cry out with every thrust. Everything he touches is on fire. I praise him, beg him, and his own moans seem to surprise him. He looks intrigued by his own pleasure, unbelieving of his own deeds. He understands quite soon that I like it fast, and obliges with devilish force. As he does, though a haze is bliss I'm still sure I see his face twitching in pain.

  


Alarmed, I lift myself closer to him, and I hear it, _Madonna_ , please, no.

It's there, of course it's back. That low rumbling wheeze rising in his breath.

  


  


Oh, fool, stupid fool that I am, what am I asking of him? He's sick, he's dying, am I so selfish?

  


-” _Armando_ , _wait_...”

  


He blinks twice, his glassy eyes gaining focus. When his wheeze breaks into a nasty rasp, damaged lungs struggling to find air, I cup his cheeks with damp, trembling hands. I feel his pain, piercing and cruel, spreading in his chest, gripping his tired heart, and though my skin screeches at the thought, I urge him to stop.

His eyes harden, there, the agony in them crushed by sheer resolve in mere seconds, and he leans down to kiss my brow. With his lips still on my skin he speaks, the quiet determination in his voice absolutely inhuman :

  


-”I will not stop. I owe it. I _want_ it.”

  
-” _Armando_ , _it is killing you_.” I beg.

  


He laughs, I swear, _he laughs,_ sweetly, carelessly, and breathes some more against my brow :

-”I'm already dead, my dearest Jules, and I have been killed by less pleasant things.”

  


Still stunned by his words, I yell in ecstasy as he starts thrusting deep, my pleasure only heightened by the forced pause. He knows me already, his moves accurate, his dance serpentine, and I'm afraid I can't think anymore. I only burn, jolting with every impact of him against me, crying out in the dark.

He freezes twice more, and really, I am not sure if it is for his own health, or for the diabolical joy of delaying my orgasm, suspending me on the edge for as long as he can. He's tired, he's sick, but isn't he the Red Demon?

  


As he stops a third time, my legs twitch so hard they almost push him back inside of me, and fire in me swallows me whole

-”No, _mi amore_ , please!”

  


I feel him tense, did I close my eyes again? I open them, meet his wide bewildered stare, _Dio,_ did I say that out loud?

He doesn't give me time to ask. He moves, harsh and coercive, letting white fire devour me whole. He moves, thrusting with brutal force, and as he promised, _he doesn't stop._

He doesn't stop.

  


I yell his name, spasming around him, and die in flames of pleasure, harder than I've ever known spending myself in thick spurts between our skins.

  


Lost in blinding light I feel him shudder, his rhythm losing all sense, and he cries out too, high-pitched with what sounds like fear. He buries his face in my shoulder, his hands gripping the sheets, and as he shakes more than he thrusts, I hear him whimpering into my ear.

  


-”Jules. _Hold me_ .” He says, just once.  
  
  
I encircle my arms around his neck without a thought, and reassured maybe, he finally lets go.

He yells, tense and shivering, and as he fills me one last time I feel his warmth inside of me, igniting my soul, redeeming my sins. His oath, his gift, _his promise._

Something of him to take with me.  
_For darker days to come._

  


All I can do then, delirious with pleasure, is bite into his neck and burst in silent tears.

  


  


  


  


  


***

  


  


  


  


  


-”Jules, dearest, would you fetch me the register of our trading delegates in Nouvelle France?”

  


-”Of course Master.”

  


Walking past him as he arranges notes on the study table, I brush a discrete hand on his shoulder, and he smiles into the touch. He doesn't say a word, he's just peaceful, comfortable, and I don't think I've ever been this happy.

  


  


He stayed last night.

When he slipped out of me and crumbled on my side, his breath was a torture to hear. Short, ragged, with this excruciating noise of creaking wood making me cringe every time in inhaled. I rushed out of the bed, staggering like a drunk man, and brought him some wine.

Pointless I know, but what else could I do.

He still thanked me with the sweetest of smiles, and whispered “ _grazie_ ” almost flawlessly, mirth shining bright in his exhausted eyes.

  


We kissed, we talked, I cleaned our skins with warm water, and we kissed some more. Then, biting on my heartbreak, I offered him his dressing gown, expecting him to get up and leave.

But he shook his head instead, tutting as he does when I get the wrong answer to one of his questions.

  


-”You asked for one night, dearest. The sun isn't rising yet.”

  


Shocked and overjoyed, I threw myself at him, pulled him into a tight embrace and laughed in pure delight. I felt him beyond fatigue, but as far as I was concerned, I would have died before I closed my eyes on my one most treasured night.

So I let him fall asleep, because he needed it, but I stayed awake, watching every breath of his, stroking his arm in slow patterns. The hour was quiet, my chambers were dark, but the touch of his white skin, the lines of his lean waist, _Oddio_ , how could I watch and do nothing?  
I let him rest for three hours, I guess, until my ignited body couldn't stand it anymore, and I woke him up gently, begging him to let me align our bodies once more.

Surprisingly, he allowed it without delay, and even more, though I was sure to be the only one revived at this point, I felt him hardening fast against me, and cherished the privilege to go down on him once more, this time right until the end.

He watched me swallow everything he gave me with a blurred mixture of bliss and disbelief.

  


I let him sleep some more, of course, but two hours later, I'm afraid my persistent embrace pulled him out of his slumber a second time, and though he laughed at my eagerness, he understood the worth each hour of this night held to my eyes. He was far from being able to do much more, but he offered to press himself behind my back as we laid on our sides.

While I grabbed myself to completion in his arms, he started muttering scorching, devilish endearments in my ear, and those loving, raspy words will remain forevermore a memory I'll blush to.

  


The sun started to rise half an hour later, and though my only night of perfection was already dead and gone, I couldn't feel truly sad, because his scent was still all over my skin, his warmth deep into my heart, his cries echoing in my mind. We got up peacefully, and just as if we had all the time in the world, he politely asked for tea before he left, his thick dressing gown wrapped around his shoulders.

  


-”Meet me in the study at nine” He ordered with a grin above the rim of his teacup. “Don't think you're getting a day off just because of this.”

  


Then he kissed me, spontaneously, and slid out the door in swift, expert silence.

  


  


  


Later on, I walked in our dear working place right on time as always, and though he barely tore his gaze from his documents as I greeted him, I instantly knew something had changed in both of us.

  


  


I didn't feel the same. I doubted I ever would. I felt both sad and delighted, both lighter and heavier, and if I searched a little, I could find the reason why, deep in my own hammering heart.  
It was him. It was everything he gave me that night.

His pain, his distress, and the burden of History.  
His warmth, his smiles, and his limitless will to please.

A tormented piece of his soul, torn between a raging will to live, and a growing sense of death, planted in mine forevermore.

  


His oath, his gift, his promise.  
_Something of him to keep with me._

  


  


He didn't feel the same. I could see it plain enough. His voice was warmer, his tone subtly lower. He allowed in his personal space without a flinch, safe and easy with my touch. It wasn't much, really, it was still the two of us, working together among paper sheets and ancient books, but I felt his trust had grown just a little bit further, embracing my body just as much as my mind, and at the sight of how perfect, how complete we felt, I feared my throat would clench with tears again.

  


I brought him the register, watching him shuffle through it, admiring his soft focused frown like the rarest painting I could ever buy.

-”I thought we could search for alliances among the Dutch a little more concerning the broadening of our colonies.” I let out nonchalantly. “United Provinces master the art of ship building much more than France, but they are inept at trade negotiations. They could discover whole continents with little investment on our side, and leave us with all the exploitation rights with nothing more than a clever push of diplomacy.”

  


His shuffling freezes, and he slowly straightens his back, turning towards me. A deep, vibrant surge of wonder passes in his fiery eyes, and on a whim, he slides one arm around my hips and pulls me closer to him, exhaling in my ear with genuine, shaken admiration:

  


  


-”Very good, Jules. _Very good_.”

  


And though I am, I swear, happy as ever, I hear a harsh sob yanked out of my chest, because that's it. The moment has come, the moment is here.

  


His hand around my waist, his lips against my ear.  
A thousand times better than my dreams.  
  


That's it, the moment is now. _  
He has taught me everything._

  


I am him and he is me.  
We are one at last, ruling over Paradise.

  


My rightful place, my time, my space.  
Forevermore, _Io e Armando._

  


Io e Armando.

  


  


  


He prolongs his embrace until my emotions recede, because, I guess, he felt teardrops upon his collar.

When he senses my breathing evening down, he gives my side a quick squeeze and snaps his fingers at his register.

  


-”We will discuss our Dutch contacts later. Right now we must make do with the outposts we have, and calculate when exactly the colonies will provide enough wealth for a new army to set against Spain. “

  


I frown at the wide book.

-”Why do we have to know the exact time when we will have those funds?” I ask.  
  


-”Because if it happens in one year, we will have to discuss the future army with the King together. If it happens in three, you will have to do it alone, and with Queen Anne directly.”

  


I shoot him a frozen, distraught look.

  


Three years.

That's what he gives himself.

That's what he gives the King.

  


Three small years, _oh For God's sake, no, that's not nearly enough._

  


I want to shout, I want to grab his hands and plead, but I just lower my head, unable to protest, because I can't deny it now, I feel it in my bones. There's a piece of him in me, his oath, his promise, and I feel, by now, the twilight of his time just as surely as he does.

  


Three years is what we have.  
_My last sunlight is receding._

  


-”We have the accounts of the last six months.” I mutter, absentminded. “Maybe we could make an educated guess.”

  


He passes a soothing hand on my cheek, and through my despair I marvel at how easy his gestures of affection for me have become. I briefly worry about our secret, but who am I to doubt the Master?

-”Yes.” He encourages. “You're right. Very good.”

  


With that, he vaguely points at this dreadful side of our study, hidden by a heavy brocade curtain, where lies the last realms of the mess Joseph has never found the time to put into order.

-” They're in the archives.” He says. “ You'll have to search for a while I'm afraid.”

  


I groan under my breath, but walk there all the same, bracing myself for half an hour of dust and damp paper. I disappear behind the curtain, light up a candle or two, and roll up my sleeves with a pained sigh.

The curtain is hung between two huge shelves facing each other, three yards apart, no more. The shelves themselves are filled enough to break, and more books lie stacked on the floor, piling up higher than a man's head. In broken trunks to the right, books. In wooden boxes on my left, more books. This is what a lifetime of overwork can result into. Safe borders and messy archives.

 _Misero me,_ such mayhem.  
No wonder _Armando_ has decided to hide this stain of chaos in his elegant, relatively ordered study rather than take the time to arrange everything. I think myself extremely patient and yet, the sight of that mess makes me want to burn it down.

  


Well. As Master says, _needs must._

  


  


  


  


I barely have turned the first pile of books around to read their cover that the study doors slam open in breathtaking thunder.

  


-” I need you in Council. **Now**.”

  


I freeze right as I am, an old book in my hands, anguished, petrified.

_The Hunter._

  


  


  


-”Good morning, Your majesty” Armando's voice gently assuages, that tone of obedience naturally clicking back into him. “My apologies, I thought the Council was scheduled for this afternoon.”

  
-” _It was_ ,” the Soldier King's low, irate rumble replies, “but La Vieuxville has failed me one time too many. I want his last council to be over by lunchtime, and his resignation letter brought to me as dessert.”

  


  


I should come out of my hiding place. I should lift this curtain and greet the King, _of course I should_ , but my instinct tells me to stay put, and now there's a piece of him in me, I think I'll trust my hunches more.

I carefully lay down the book and crawl to that part of the curtain where time has left a small hole, pressing my eyes against the thick fabric to get a glimpse of the study.  
I see them both perfectly, bathing in cold white light, the Hunter pacing around in furious strides, the Master standing in front of the register where I left him.

  


-”Is it about his attitude towards Spain again?” _Armando_ asks, distractedly brushing a few documents aside to retrieve a file that he pulls towards himself.  
  
I'd bet my whole fortune this file has La Vieuxville's name on it.

  


-”A Minister.” Louis growls. “A bloody _Minister_ of the Royal council, _advising_ me to reconsider my opinion! I won't allow anyone, do yo hear me, **_anyone_** to even suggest I'm mistaken. I am King of divine right, and my decisions are infallible. I expect my Ministers to either understand that, or go die in the mud like the _dogs_ they are.”

  


Armando bites on a flinch, but doesn't say anything. He's hurt, maybe, but not afraid. He just stands there, his clever eyes passing through La Vieuxville's file, patiently waiting for the King to calm down.

He knows what to do. He knows the Hunter. He knows every heartbeat of his, every emotion, every thought. He knows Louis more than the King knows himself, and this sense of completion, of perfect bond between two souls I was so proud to feel this morning is nothing but a fickle thing compared to the dance of the Sun and the Moon.

I bit my lips, I clench my teeth.

I had one night, one night of his skin it's true, but the Soldier King still gets his heart, bleeding between his hands, offered to him every morning.

  


And so he waits, _Santo tra i santi_ , for the Hunter to calm down, and of course, that's exactly what happens. Louis' strides eventually turn into steps, and in his wild, angry eyes I can see he's already rethinking what he has said.

  


  


-”Well. Not you.” He mutters, his eyes cast through the windows. “You can ...advise me. Not that you would even consider refraining from it anyways. But won't _tolerate_ anyone else.”

  


-”Your Majesty knows I only live and breathe to deserve that privilege.” _Armando_ whispers, and for the first time since he walked in here I think, Louis de France turns to him with a quick smile, and truly _looks_ at him.

  


“I know” is what he was about to say I'm sure, but not a sound comes out of him.

  


He has frozen is his speech, his fierce stare fixed upon my dear Master, and I swear I can see his jaw working.

_Pieta, Signore._

  


Startled by the King's silence, Master looks up from the file to the broad figure, and his tranquility quickly turns into alarm.

He claps the document shut, and I see his hands joining on his heart in that gesture he always does when he feels vulnerable. My legs want to run at his side, my fists are already closed, but he knows I'm here, _he knows_ , and if he doesn't call, it means he wants me to remain where I am.

  


I never forget where reason is, this is why he chose me after all.

  


Slowly, huffing short furious breaths, the Hunter walks closer. The Red Man doesn't step back, but his eyes widen in panic. The King steps around the table, focused, deliberate, his narrow eyes never leaving _Armando_ 's face, and I'm almost certain he's sniffing the air.

He eventually stops, inches from the red robes, and _Oddio, his glare, it's unbearable._

  


I am sure there is not a trace of what we've done. I'm sure Master had a bath, I'm sure he burned the nightshirt. I'm sure his lies are as clean as his desk, his reasons ready, his alibis solid. The Hunter doesn't see anything, he doesn't smell anything.

  


But that doesn't matter, does it?  
_He feels truth in everything._

  


He knows.

  


I feel the Earth shattering below my feet. I feel the wind of the executioner's axe blowing in the back of my neck. I feel darkness, I feel defeat, but I don't even whimper, because I know that's what  _Armando_  wants of me.

  


  


-”Where is he?” The Soldier King growls, leaning close in sheer threat.

-”Who?” The Red Snake breathes, his fingers clenched around each other on his heaving chest.

  


-”The Italian filth. _**Where is he?** _ ”

  


At the harsh, ominous shout, my Master closed his eyes and turned his head aside, offering his neck in submission, and even from where I am, I can hear the fateful wheeze curling around his tired lungs again.

He looks anguished, he looks distressed, he looks both in agony and in sorrow, but what he doesn't look the slightest bit I'm sure, is guilty or surprised.

Armando knew the King would find out, - _God, why didn't he tell me_ \- and though he's miserable for hurting his Sun, he's ready to stand for what he's done.

Brave as he's always been. _Santo tra I santi._

  


-”I sent him off to work for me.” he softly explains, and how wisely he chose his words.  
  
He's not even lying.

  


With that, the Hunter snarls like a wolf, showing a flash of white teeth, presses a brutal hand against Armando's cheek and forces his face back towards him.

-”Look at me.” he orders, and his lover obeys.

Their eyes meet, and The Red Man's breath collapses.

The wheeze grows, blooming into the sound of breaking twigs in a wood fire, and _Armando_ 's thin chest shudders with pain. I watch heartbreak explode in his eyes as he reads the King's wounded fury, and I have no doubt the bond between their hearts forces Louis' every emotion right into him with dreadful might.

  


The Soldier King leans closer, his fangs almost brushing Armando's jaw, and he hisses, _absolute_ :

-”I will kill him, Armand. I will have him shot down on the stairs of your very Palace, and you'll have to step on the stains from his blood every time I summon you at my feet.”

  


  


Dear Master gasps, shaking his head in terror, but the sound tears itself into an awful heave. He struggles for air, his eyes blurring, and _Heavens, have mercy_ , the heave turns into a fit of cough. The sound is unnatural, wretched, hollow and dry, coming from the depths of his dying lungs, and it just doesn't stop.

  


He coughs, trembling hands pressed against his mouth, and without thought I think I do the same, or else I'm sure I'd be screaming.  
  
He coughs, shaken like a rag doll, and it lasts for far too long, Lord, have mercy, he's not breathing at all.

He coughs, the torture of it too painful to watch, and when the sounds cease upon a last heart-wrenching rasp, he dazedly lifts his face away from his hands.

  


No.  
  


_Not yet, Dio,_ _**no** _ _._

  


  


The blood is out.

Thick, black blood around his smooth white lips, thick black blood into his soft white hands.  
Blood everywhere, in gruesome threads of spit between his palms and his chin.

  


Blood ticking from his mouth, torn out of his lungs by exhaustion and disease.

The blood is out.  
_The countdown has begun._

  


  


Armand has paled atrociously, agony rippling down his spine, but the low, whining cry echoing in the study is not his at all.

  
It's Louis'.

  


The Hunter has gone very still, his eyes locked upon the blood, and the _misery_ in his eyes, Dio, I'll never forget. I think he's panting, too, rage and suffering battling in his throat, and there is such violence, such intensity in his heartbreak that he suddenly sounds like centuries of solitude.

The King's hands turn softer, brushing past Armand's elbows instinctively, and of course, he too knows exactly what to do, because one heartbeat later the thin red frame crumbles in his arms.

  


Louis de France doesn't speak, doesn't shout. He looks straight ahead, stunned and trembling, gathering the limp body against his chest. There is blood on his doublet, blood on his cheek, he doesn't seem to care, staring into the emptiness between the table and the floor, breathing in jagged huffs.

  


Fear, sorrow and refusal take rapid turns upon his face, and still, not a tear seems to ever come out.

  


I thought Master unconscious, but after a while, his gentle voice rises from the heap of silk into the Hunter's arms :

  


-”Louis, I beg you, don't hurt him.” He says, and at the sound of his name, the King had a start, and closed his eyes tight.

  


-”He's our future” _Armando_ 's voice bravely goes on, though a thick rumble of fluid. “We both need him. He's our legacy, our hope. He'll work for the France we build together, and keep her alive through changing times.”

  


I'm not sure the King is listening, his dazed frown only washed over by waves of raw grief, but I am, God knows I am, and I feel my whole body shaken by tears.  
Those words, those sacred words I've been waiting for all my life, my dear Master calling me hope, calling me the future. Those words I swear, I would give anything not to hear them now.

  


-”The sacrifice he agreed upon, believe me” _Armando_ adds, “is worth a thousand times the miserable warmth he got from what's left of me. Please, _mon Roi_ , please, understand. Everything I do, everything I've always done, has only been for the glory of your name.”

  


  


  


The soft pained voice breaks and stops. Silence rules over the study.

The Hunter doesn't reply. He looks like he'll never speak again. Here he stands, King of absolute right, in brocade of gold and glorious white light, lonely and tragic with his dying lover into his arms, and maybe it's there, maybe it's right there I see for the first time his will to live faltering.

  


The bond between those souls, forged by forces of History, goes beyond their very lives.  
If one of them goes, the other will inexorably, inescapably follow, and what I was so proud to feel this morning, it's only a fickle thing.

  


_Only a fickle thing._

  


The Hunter doesn't reply. He shakes himself out of his sorrow and lifts the slender frame in red as if it weighed nothing. He carries him towards a large armchair and lays him down there with a loving, respectful care I'd never thought this violent man able of.

Wordless and distant, his thoughts visibly somewhere else, the Soldier King looks around for a basin, and patiently cleans the black blood away from Armando's hands and mouth. Master welcomes the gesture with aborted moves, breathing cautiously, trying not to wake up the cough again.

  


When Armando's face is made of soft white skin once more, Louis settles himself facing him, leans down in quiet focus, and one of his hands firmly grabs the back of the armchair right next to his lover's face.

The Red man looks up, his eyes already lavished by fatigue, and if his fingers do try to touch the King's free hand, they rise for a few inches no more until they fall back, weak and useless, onto his lap.

It's the Hunter himself who lifts his own hand, and gently, reverently strokes the silver hair.

  


-”Do you love him?” Louis de France softly asks.

  


-”Not the way I love you.”

  


And though I would have cried and shouted in rage at this answer ten years ago, today I smile in bittersweet contentment at what feels like nothing more than my rightful place.

The King's face doesn't flinch. He's not surprised, he's not even intrigued.  
He knows, _he feels truth in everything._  
He just wants to hear the words, that's all.

  


-”Do you want him?” The King goes on.

  


-”Not in the way I want you.”

  


-”Will it happen again?”

  


-”Never.”

  


  


Silence.

The gentle hand in the silver hair, brushing back unruly strands, stroking down the hollow cheek.

  


The Hunter doesn't speak. He leans down to kiss Armando's brow, lingering there for a long, long time. I think I see him shiver, but I don't know what for. All I see for sure is the wide eyes of dark honey flutter close, and the Red Man's body going limp on the armchair with a ragged sigh.

-”Sleep.” The King orders, his lips lost into the soft hair. “I'll send Citoys to watch over you. Council is scheduled for this afternoon.”

  


From what I can get a glimpse of, before Louis' sentence ends _Armando_ 's already gone.

The King makes a painfully visible effort to tear himself from his touch, eyes and fists squeezed shut for a while, but he does straighten up and turn away, walking, a bit slow maybe, to the door where he came from.

  


Passing by my curtain, he stops dead and so does my heart.  
The Hunter looks right in my direction, and through a wave of terror I vaguely notice there is, at last, a single tear on his left cheek.

  


-“You're mine Armand.” He speaks to the air and to no one. “You're mine until your dying breath. Prepare the future if you like, but never _once_ forget this.”

  


Did he notice Armand's asleep? Did he speak for me, did he know, _did he sense?_

I guess I'll have make do with the sight of him spinning around and leaving the room burned deep in my memory forevermore.

  


  


***


	4. 1642

The chapel isn't finished yet, but it's already magnificent. We all feel drafts whistling in our backs as the choir sing Miserere once more, but under the perfect dome, I don't think it matters much.

  


His dear Sorbonne. He drew it himself, from the mains stairs to the organ case, I know, _I was there._

I was there, just as I am, right now, right next to him, looking up, paying attention.  
The most eager of all students.

  


But the Master is silent, now, and he will speak no more.  
He's there in that wide black coffin, under a thick canopy of red silk.

  


He's gone, my last ray of sunlight.  
_He has taught me everything._

  


  


The Archbishop Gondi says a few words of praise, all of them blank and noncommittal.  
The man never had a shred of fondness for Richelieu, like most, actually, but Master wanted it so. He didn't want to let people say that the only way he could get someone to say his last oration was to name someone he paid for.

Hah. _The people of France._

  


  


The People of France outside is celebrating. If the Royal Guards weren't pushing them away from the gates right now, we could still hear their cries of joy. We had to shorten the exposition of the coffin by a whole week, because we were worried the people would seize his body and throw it in the street.

Bottles are popped open all over the country, songs of joy and relief heard from Lille to Bordeaux.

  


Idiots.

  


You have felt the weight of the taxes, that's for sure, but you have no idea the grandeur he made of them. You have no idea who you'd be saluting as a King instead of your own, if your so-detested Red Demon hadn't made this Kingdom broad and strong.

  


  


He's there, Louis, rightful King of France, in glory and light, two seats on my left.

  


He's magnificent, truly, his black attire rimmed in gold, his thick ermine cloak cascading at his feet.  
He's still tall, still handsome, still beaming pride and natural power, one hand gripping his military stick, the other clenched into a fist.

  


He's still everything his portraits show, but all spark of light has gone from his dark, dulled eyes.

  


He can't even look at the coffin. He looks up instead, straight into the face of God it seems, as if his quarrel was only with him by now. He looks mighty, but _Dio_ , he's tired, and he seems to have been crying for a thousand years. We have never been friends, the Hunter and I, how could we have, but today it breaks my heart, it truly does, to see such a noble man emptied of all strength, all aim, all need.

  


He's nothing more than the empty shell that used to contain Louis de France.  
He's already dead, deep inside, and only waits for the rest of him to follow.

  


The Soldier King doesn't want to fight anymore.  
Too much of himself is laying cold in that wooden box.

  


Next to him patiently sits the young Dauphin, four years old. The silent, obedient child stares at his father, hoping for a glance, and doesn't seem to understand a lot of what is happening.

He never knew much of the Red Man. He called him _Monsieur Rouge_ and never dared to talk to him.  
Master was too tall, too impressive maybe, with far too much intensity in his eyes to gain the trust of a toddler.

Me, smaller and plump, with those funny waves of my hands as I speak, have been much easier to reach. The future King relies on me, searching for my presence for a joke, a game, or an advice. The fact that Armando fought for months for me to be named as little Louis' godfather might have helped about all this.

The chessboard is set, the pawns are moving, and in this child's steady affection for me, our legacy has been secured.

  


  


Right next to me, Queen Anne barely manages to hide her smile. She's quite aware of Regency being one step away, and turns to me every minute to bat her eyelids for a while.

 _Per l'amor di Dio_ , she's disgusting.

  


She's stupid, swollen by sugar and vanity, and she smells like rancid sweat and rose oil. I grin back at her, lower my head in the seductive gesture every Italian grows up to learn.

She almost coos in pleasure, and though my stomach churns at the sound of it, I brush a gentleman's finger on her sleeve.  
  
I've been biting on my revulsion in her suite and in her bed since my purgatory has begun.  
Three years ago, quite exactly.

  


Three years ago I started to court the Queen, my every gesture and every word planned in advance by the Master. It worked with unsettling ease, and soon enough I was spending every hour of my days in her tiresome company, rushing at night to the study for a word of comfort, a gesture of affection.

Every day, every night, after I spilled my day's load of secrets into his lap, this gesture he always had, in a hand around my waist, in his lips against my ear. He never gave me another night, and I never once asked, but we felt safe and comfortable in each other's touch.

It kept me going on for three years.  
  
_But three years, it's true, was all we had._

  


  


  
  
He didn't allow me to see him die.

Four months before, he sent me off to Spain to negotiate a trading route through conquered lands, and I know for sure he chose his time with dreadful lucidity.  
  
By that time he could barely stand, and breathing was a constant struggle. Headache and chest pain were his everyday bread, and the handkerchief in his sleeve was stained with blood most of the time.

Still, he maintained quiet appearances, brave as he'd always been. Enduring agony with a dignified, elegant poise, his voice merely faltering in the gravest fits of fever.

Sickness was battled just like any other enemy crossed on his path.

  


Madness, on the other hand, had grown undefeated. His emotions, happy or sad, always felt too intensely for his own good, pillaged his strength and damaged his mind, his brilliant wits creaking under the weight of his constant, irrational worry.

This last year, despite the burning, unchanging love he still felt for the King, he went so far as building from scratch a brand new favorite for him, pushing a dashing young boy into his chambers only to verify the Hunter's faith in him. I understood his fear of losing Louis' affection as his health steadily kept decaying, but this was nothing short of betrayal.

I fought him about this, and I fought hard, up to the point where he almost exiled me back to Italy, but I could do nothing to prevent his insanity from crossing that line.

  


When the boy, corrupted by ambition, turned against his creator, the Red Man forced the King to execute the friend he literally had _forged_ for him. Heartbroken, the Hunter obeyed, but this whole aberration did nearly cost them everything.

  


The Soldier King was still in love, _Dio, how could delusion blind Armando so much?_  
The King himself, five times a week, was still brining medicine to the Red Man's sickbed, sitting on the mattress to help him drink up.

  


  


But Master's mind was clear upon that day, and though his breath was filled with the sound of broken bones, he still walked with me to that carriage in the courtyard of the Palace, clenching his jaw upon his pain at every step. 

That's when I knew, I think. I was simply on my way off to extort from the Spanish a safe-conduct for a few merchants. The mission was too trivial for him to make such a effort. 

  


I knew, I think, the reason why he couldn't let me go with a short nod just like he always did.

  
It wasn’t polite farewell this time.  
  
_It was our last goodbye._

  


  


Every inch of me howled at the mere thought.  
I turned to him in a whirl of my travel coat, and grabbed his hands with fervor :  
  
\- “I can't leave you.” I pleaded. “ You're barely holding on.”

  


He smiled fondly once more, his eyes of sweet fire brightening up along the way.  
  
\- “I'll be just fine.” He said. “There's work to be done for France still.”

  


-”But I don't want this to be the last I see of you!” I cried, shaking my head in stubborn denial.

-“What if I do?” He replied, tilting his head to the side and frowning lightly. “Is it so surprising for me to care about how I'll be remembered in your eyes?”

  


-”Master, _please_ -” I tried, but by the peaceful glow on his face, I knew all argument was useless.

  


_Changing his mind, after all, had never been my strong suit._

  


  


  


-”Go, now, dearest.” He urged me quietly. “It is time.”

  


My heart sinking, my knees weak, I lifted both his hands to my lips and kissed them twice, like upon this glorious day in this castle of Pierre Encise, where my life, just like a coat, wrapped itself around his thin shoulders forevermore.

  


How fitting, after all, for that humble gesture to be our last.

  


-”Remember, Jules.” He told me, a hint of loss thickening his voice. “Observe before you speak. Trust the deeds, never the words. Put the State above everything. In case of doubt, just feel France in your heart and do what's best for her always.”

  


This was his last will, spoken to me in hope and trust, so filled with pride that I started sobbing.  
I held his hands against my mouth refusing to let go, shaken by grief and despair, and as tears run freely down my cheeks, I whispered to his skin what I had lived by all along :  
  
-” _Ti amo Armando_.”

  


He huffed a touched sigh, and gently set his hands free from my grasp. He laid a chaste kiss on his own fingertips, then, and with them he drew a cross on my forehead.

He didn't need to speak.

There was love in his gesture, the purest I've ever known, and for sure I didn't have it all, but the piece of him he gave me, it was mine, and mine alone.

  


Something of him to take with me.  
_For darker days to come._   
  


  
He pushed me in the carriage, and closed the door himself upon my trembling, clumsy legs.

-”Off you go !” He laughed. “I don't know how long I'll be able to stand, and the list of people willing you pick me up is getting shorter by the hour.”

  


He smiled. How perfect, how soft was this smile.  
That's how he wanted to be remembered, and in God's name, I owed him that.

  
_I owe him everything._   
  
  
  


As the carriage went off, his face turned deadly serious, and he, my Master, my teacher, my love, my everything, he bowed gracefully for me.

  


-”Be safe, _Monseigneur Mazarin_.” Was the last thing he said to me.

  


The title felt like a sword passed on from a dying warrior to his own son, and I watched the red frame disappear beyond the gates with such sorrow I couldn't breathe. When the last glimpse of the Louvres roofs was lost to me, I closed my eyes, collapsed on the bench, and cried until well into the Pyrenees.

  


  


  
  
  
  
  
He'll forgive me I think, if I bribed his secretary to warn me of his decline, so that I would at least be back for the funeral.  
  
He'll forgive me I think, if under that gorgeous dome, in front of that wide black coffin, my own sadness doesn't quite show. 

  


I cried all there was to be cried, and now there is work to be done.

  


  


Contestants are rising outside, sniffing weakness in the heart of the State now its creator lies dead.

The Queen is clueless and needs my advice as water and air.

France needs order, France needs control.

  


_Everything depends on me._  
  
This is the moment he prepared me for, the reason why he did chose me.

I am Jules Mazarin, first Minister of France, and I'm not afraid anymore.

  


  


His books, his notes, his files, everything is in my study now, between my art collection and my personal treasury  
  


All his secrets are stored in my drawers and in my mind.

All his secrets and _a few of mine._   
  
  


  
  
His first letter to me, that I found folded in two into my old bible as made room in my apartments for all the things he left to me.  
  
A copy of his political memoirs, with handwritten comments in the margin meant for me alone.

  
  
The brown dressing gown I stole from the less valuable part of his belongings that was meant to be destroyed.

  
  
The pillow he slept on that night, wrapped in silk and hidden in a trunk  
  
  


And above it all, as the highest of treasures, this part of him into my heart.

  
His pain, his fear, his sense of all things ending.  
His warmth, his smile, his raging will to live.  
  
His oath, his gift, his promise.

 

 

  
_Something of him to take with me, for a new era to come._

 

 

 

 


End file.
